Counterfeit World

by Daniel F. Galouye

“She never existed. Not until a few weeks ago.” She nodded cognizantly before I could protest. “Sure—you’ve known her for years. But that knowledge is just the effects of retro-programming. You see, two things happened at the same time. Dr. Fuller reasoned out the true nature of his world. And, up there, we recognized Fuller’s simulator as a complication that must be eliminated. So we decided to plant an observer down here to keep close watch on developments.”

  “We? Meaning—who?”

  She elevated her eyes briefly. “The simulectronic engineers. I was selected as the observer. Through retroprogramming, we created the further illusion that Fuller had had a daughter.”

  “But I remember her as a child!”

  “Everybody——every relevant reactor—remembers her as a child. That was the only way we could justify my presence down here.”

  I took some more food.

  She glanced out the window. “It won’t be morning for a few hours yet. We’ll be safe until then.”

  “Why?”

  “Even the Operator can’t stay at it twenty-four hours a day. This world is on a time-equivalent basis with the real one.”

  No matter how I reasoned it out, she had to be here for one of two purposes: to help the Operator destroy Fuller’s simulator, or to effect my own elimination. There was no other possibility. For I could imagine myself in an analogous capacity—descending into the counterfeit world of Fuller’s simulator. Down there, I would consider myself a projection of a real person, in contrast to the purely analog characters around me. And it would be impossible for me to become concerned with the insignificant affairs of any of those lower ID units.

  “What is your purpose here?” I asked frankly.

  “I want to be with you, darling.”

  Darling? How naive did she think I was? Was I supposed to believe a real person might actually be in love with a reactional unit—a simulectronic shadow?

  Apparently distraught, she placed tense fingers before her mouth. “Oh, Doug—you don’t know how savage the Operator is!”

  “Yes I do,” I said bitterly.

  “I didn’t realize what he was doing until I coupled myself with you yesterday. Then I saw what he had been up to. You see, he has absolute authority over his simulator, over this world. It’s sort of like being a god, I suppose. At least, he must have eventually begun looking at it that way.”

  She paused and stared at the floor. “I guess he was sincere at first in trying to program the destruction of Fuller’s simulator. He had to be, because if Fuller’s machine succeeded, there wouldn’t be any room down here for our response-seeking system—the reaction monitors. He was also sincere, I imagine, about humanely doing away with any reactor who became aware of his simulectronic nature.

  “When you stepped out of line, he tried to kill you—quickly, clinically. But something happened. I suppose he realized how much pleasure he was getting from putting you through your paces. And suddenly he didn’t want to do away with you—not too quickly, anyway.”

  I broke in thoughtfully. “Collingsworth said he could understand how simulectronicists might think of themselves as gods.”

  She stared intensely at me. “And, remember: when Collingsworth spoke with you, he had been programmed by the Operator to say just that.”

  I took another few mouthfuls and shoved the tray aside.

  “It wasn’t until yesterday,” she went on, “that I realized he could have solved his problem, as far as you were concerned, any time he wanted, simply by reorienting you. But no. There was too much perverted gratification to be had by letting you come close to Fuller’s secret, then pushing you away, steering you all the while toward some such fate as he arranged for Collingsworth.”

  I stiffened. “You don’t think he’d try mutilating—”

  “I don’t know. There’s no telling what he’ll do. That’s why I’ve got to stay down here with you.”

  “What can you do?”

  “Perhaps nothing. We can only wait and see.”

  Anxiously, she put her arms around me. Did she expect me to think that, just because someone up there had singled me out for torture, she wanted to be with me in a spirit of compassion? Well, I could pull the pedistrip out from under her pretense easily enough.

  “Jinx, you’re a—material person. I’m just a figment of somebody’s imagination. You can’t be in love with me!”

  She stepped back, apparently hurt. “Oh, but I am, Doug! It’s—so difficult to explain.”

  I had imagined it would be. She sat on the edge of the bed and faced me uncertainly. Her eyes were restless. Of course she was at a loss to explain how she could love me under the circumstances.

  I ran my hand into my pocket and fingered the laser gun. I made certain its setting was for full spread. Then I whipped it out and turned suddenly on her.

  Eyes widening, she started to rise. “No, Doug—don’t!”

  I gave her a superficial spraying, focusing on her head, and she fell back unconscious across the bed. The short burst would hold her for at least an hour.

  Meanwhile I could move around and think, free from the pressure of her presence. And almost immediately I saw what I should do next.

  Considering the plan, I took my time washing, then using the lavatory’s autoshaver. At the personal dispenser, I dialed in my size and waited for the plastic-wrapped, throw-away shirt to appear.

  Finally refreshed, I checked the time. It was well after midnight. I went back and looked down at Jinx. I placed the laser gun on the pillow and knelt beside the bed.

  Her dark hair was satiny and lustrous as it flared out on the spread. I buried my hands in its soft depths, sending my fingers groping over her scalp. Finally I located the sagittal suture and explored back, pressing firmly in all the while, until I found the minute depression I was searching for.

  Holding my finger over the spot, I set the laser gun at the required focus, then placed its intensifier exactly where my finger had been. I hit the stud briefly, then once again for good measure.

  It struck me momentarily as being irrational, my performing a physical action on an intangible projection. But the illusion of reality was, had to be, so complete that all pseudo-physical causes were properly translated into analogous simulectronic effects. Projections were no exception.

  I stepped back. Now let her try deception! With her volitional center well sprayed, I could believe anything she’d say, for the next several hours at least.

  I bent over her. “Jinx, can you hear me?”

  Without opening her eyes, she nodded. “You’re not to withdraw,” I ordered. “Do you understand? You’re not to withdraw until I say so.” She nodded again.

  Fifteen minutes later, she began awakening.

  I paced in front of her as she sat there on the bed, somewhat groggy from the latter laser treatment. Her eyes, though distant, were clear and steady.

  “Up,” I said.

  And she stood.

  “Down.”

  She sat obediently.

  It was clear I had zeroed in on her volitional center.

  I fired the first question. “How much of what you just told me is false?”

  Her eyes remained focused on nothing. Her expression was frozen. “None of it.”

  I started. There I was, stumped at the very beginning. But it couldn’t all have been true!

  Thinking back to the first time I had seen her, I asked, “Do you remember the drawing of Achilles and the tortoise?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you denied later there was such a drawing.”

  She said nothing. Then I knew why she was silent. I hadn’t asked a question or directed her to make a statement. “Did you later deny there was such a drawing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was supposed to throw you off the track, block you from vital knowledge.”

  “Because that was what the Operator wanted?”

  “Only partly.”

  “Why else?�
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  “Because I was falling in love with you and didn’t want to see you get involved in dangerous circumstances.”

  Again I was stymied. For I knew it was as impossible for her to feel genuine affection toward me as it would be for me to become amorously involved with one of the ID units in Fuller’s simulator.

  “What did happen to the drawing?”

  “It was deprogrammed.”

  “Right there on the spot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Explain how it was done.”

  “We knew it was there. After the Operator arranged Dr. Fuller’s death, I spent a week monitoring his deactivated memory drums for any hints he may have left behind about his ‘discovery’. We—”

  I broke in. “You must have seen then that he had passed the information on to Morton Lynch.”

  She only stared ahead. That had been a statement.

  “Didn’t you see then that he had passed the information on to Lynch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you simply yank Lynch right away?”

  “Because it would have called for reorientation of many reactors.”

  “You had to reorient them anyway, when you finally decided to deprogram Lynch after all.” I waited, eventually realizing I had merely made another statement. I rephrased the thought: “Why didn’t you want to reorient this world to the alternate fact that Lynch had never existed?”

  “Because it appeared he would keep silent on what Fuller had told him. We believed he would eventually convince himself he had only imagined Fuller’s saying his world was nothing.”

  I paused to regroup my thoughts. “You were telling me how Fuller’s drawing had disappeared. Go on with your explanation.”

  “By monitoring his deactivated drums, we found out about the sketch. When I went to Reactions to pick up his personal effects, I was to look for other clues we might have missed. The Operator decided to yank the drawing at that particular time so we could check on the efficiency of the deletion modulator.”

  Again, I paced in front of her, satisfied that I was at last getting a full measure of truth. But I wanted to know everything. From what she told me I might learn whether there was anything I could do to escape the Operator’s sadistic intent.

  “If you are a real person up there, how can you maintain a projection of your self down here?” That question had been prompted by the sudden realization that I couldn’t stay indefinitely in Fuller’s simulator on a direct surveillance circuit.

  She answered mechanically, without a trace of emotion or interest. “Every night, instead of sleeping, I go back up there. During that part of the day when I can reasonably expect to be out of contact with reactors down here, I withdraw.”

  That was logical. Time on a projection couch was equivalent to time spent asleep. Thus, the biological necessity of rest was fully provided. And, while she was withdrawn from this world, she could be tending to other physical needs.

  I faced her suddenly with the critical question. “How do you explain being in love with me?”

  Without feeling, she said, “You’re much like someone I once loved up there.”

  “Who?”

  “The Operator.”

  Somehow I sensed the imminence of revelation. I remembered how, during the latter instances of empathic coupling with the Operator, I had gotten the odd impression of a certain indefinite similarity between us. That checked.

  “Who is the Operator?”

  “Douglas Hall.”

  I fell back incredulously. “Me?”

  “No.”

  “But that’s what you just said!”

  Silence—in response to a nondemanding assertion.

  “How can the Operator be me and not be me at the same time?”

  “It’s something like what Dr. Fuller did with Morton Lynch.”

  “I don’t understand.” Then, when I received no response, “Explain that.”

  “Fuller facetiously recreated Lynch as a character in his simulator. Douglas Hall recreated himself as a character in his simulator.”

  “You mean I’m exactly like the Operator?”

  “To a point. The physical resemblance is perfect. But there’s been a divergence of psychological traits. I can see now that the Hall up there is a megalomaniac.”

  “And that’s why you stopped loving him?”

  “No. I stopped long before then. He started changing years ago. I suspect now that he’s been tormenting other reactors too. Torturing them, then deprogramming them to conceal any evidence that might be stored in their memory circuits.”

  I paced to the window and stared out at the early morning sky. Somehow it didn’t seem reasonable—a material person drawing warped gratification out of watching imaginary entities go through simulated anguish. But, then, all sadists thrived on mental appreciation of suffering. And, in a simulectronic setting, the subjective quality of programmed torment was as valid as the mental reaction to actual torture would be in a physical world.

  Beginning now to understand her attitude, her motives, her reactions, I turned back to Jinx. “When did you find out the Operator had programmed his simulectronic equivalent into his machine?”

  “When I started preparing for this projection assignment.”

  “Why do you suppose he did it?”

  “I couldn’t even guess at first. But now I know. It has to do with unconscious motivation. A sort of Dorian Gray effect. It was a masochistic expedient. But he probably didn’t even realize that he was actually providing himself with an analog self against whom he could let off his guilt complex steam.”

  “How long have I been down here?”

  “Ten years, with adequate retroprogramming to give you a valid past before then.”

  “How old is the simulator itself?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  I sank back into the chair, confused and weary. Scientists had spent centuries examining rocks, studying stars, digging up fossils, combing the surface of the moon, tying up in neat wrappings their perfectly logical theory that this world was five billion years old. And all the while they had been almost exactly that many years off the mark. It was ludicrous in a cosmic sense.

  Outside, the first hint of dawn was beginning to spread itself in a thin crescent above the horizon. I could almost understand now how Jinx might love someone who wasn’t real.

  “You saw me for the first time in Fuller’s office,” I asked softly, “and realized that I was more the Douglas Hall you had fallen in love with than was the one up there?”

  “I saw you many times before then, in preparing for the projection assignment. And each time I studied your mannerisms, heard you talk, tuned in on your thoughts, I knew that the Doug Hall I had lost up there to his simulator was now down here in the same simulator.”

  I went over and took her hand. She surrendered it passively.

  “And now you want to stay here with me?” I asked, slightly ridiculing her decision.

  “As long as I can. Until the end.”

  I had been about to order her to withdraw to her own world. But she had unwittingly reminded me that I hadn’t yet asked her the most important question.

  “Has the Operator decided what he’s going to do about Fuller’s simulator?”

  “There isn’t anything he can do. The situation’s gotten out of hand. Almost every reactor down here is willing to fight to protect Fuller’s machine because they believe it will transform their world into a Utopia.”

  “Then,” I asked, appalled, “he’s going to destroy it?”

  “He has to. There’s no other way. I found out that much the last time I withdrew.”

  Grimly, I asked, “How long do we have?”

  “He’s only been waiting to go through the formality of consulting his advisory board. He’ll do that this morning. Then he’ll cut the master switch.”

  17

  Day was climbing well into the sky now as I stood before the window, watching the city come to life. High ove
rhead, a stream of Army vans drifted by, apparently carrying a change of guard for the Reactions building several blocks away.

  How inconsequential everything seemed! How useless were all purpose and destiny! How naive and unsuspecting was every reactional unit out there!

  This was Doomsday. But only I was aware of it.

  One moment life would be flowing its normal course—people crowding the pedistrips, traffic moving unconcernedly. In the forest, trees would be growing and wild life moving peacefully among them. With abandon, the lake would be tossing itself in gentle ripples upon the rocky shore.

  The next moment all illusion would be swept aside. The ceaseless surge of sustaining currents would come to abrupt rest in myriads of transducers, halt in midleap from cathode to anode, freeze in their breathless race across contact points on thousands of drums. In that instant, warm and convincing reality would be translated into the nothingness of neutralized circuits. A universe would be lost forever in one final, fatal moment of total simulectronic entropy.

  I turned and faced Jinx. Still she hadn’t moved. I went over and stared down at her—beautiful even in her trance—like immobility. She had tried to save me from the horrifying knowledge that the end of all creation was imminent. And she had loved me. Enough to share my oblivion.

  I bent down and bracketed her cheeks between my hands, feeling the smoothness of her face, the only slightly coarser brush of dark, silken hair against my fingers. Here, she was a projection of her physical self. She must be as beautiful up there. It was an elegance of features and form that mustn’t be wasted in a spirit of self-sacrifice based on misdirected devotion.

  Tilting her face up, I kissed her on the forehead, then on the lips. Had there been the merest suggestion of a response? I was apprehensive. That would mean her suppressed volition was again beginning to assert itself.

  I couldn’t take the chance of having that happen. I couldn’t allow her to be trapped down here when the final moment of simulectronic existence ended. If she were, then that would be the end for her too, physically as well as for her projection in my world.

  “Jinx.”

  “Yes?” Her eyelids flicked for the first time in hours.

  “You’ll withdraw now,” I directed. “And you won’t project again.”