Counterfeit World (8 page)

We settled down onto the velvet couch and Dorothy nestled snugly beneath my arm, her cheek upon my chest and the fragrance of her perfumed hair rising into my face. The attendant lowered the headpieces and swung the control panel to within Dorothy’s reach.

“Just relax and leave it to little Dottie,” she said, squirming to grip the selectors.

Tingling current lanced instantly from scores of electrodes, sensing and homing in on appropriate cortical centers. The room, the tapestries, the scents—all were swept away like thistledown scattered by a gale.

Delicate azure skies stretched overhead, blanketing a lazy-rolling, emerald sea that washed with soothing monotony upon a beach of purest sand. Surging water buoyed me up, then dropped me again in a sluggish, wavering motion until my toes touched the rippled bottom.

It wasn’t an illusion. It was
real.
There was no doubting the validity of the experience, even though it sprang solely from excited hallucination centers. Cortical stimulation was
that
effective.

There was a tinkle of laughter behind me and, on the crest of the next swell, I treaded around, only to intercept a faceful of splashed water.

Dorothy shoved off, out of my reach. I went after her and she crash-dived, exposing in glistening, fleeting array the sun-washed bareness of her firm, supple body.

We swam under water and once I even drew close enough to seize her by the ankle before she wrenched free and was off again, like a graceful creature of the sea.

I broke surface and spewed out a mouthful of brine.

And there was Jinx Fuller, standing on the beach, tense and concerned as she scanned the frothing seascape. The wind whipped her skirt and tossed her hair about her face.

Dorothy surfaced, saw Jinx and scowled. “It’s no good here.”

Blackness swept across the warp of my senses, then Dorothy and I were on skis, flashing down the frozen, white breast of a mountain and laughing against the chill spray of powdered snow.

We slowed and tried a shallow curve around an irregular rise. She took a spill and I braked, returning to drop down beside her.

She laughed heartily, slipped her goggles up onto her forehead and caught my neck within her arms.

But I only stared beyond her—at Jinx. Half concealed by an ice-tinseled tree, she was a silent, pensive witness.

And in that preoccupied moment I sensed it—the gentle, furtive presence of Dorothy Ford’s questing thoughts, boring, together with the excitative currents, into layer after layer of cortical tissue.

I had forgotten about the resonant effects of a reciprocating ESB circuit; forgotten that coupled stimulation could bring about an involuntary surrender of thoughts by one of the subjects.

I reared erect on the couch and snapped off my headpiece.

Dorothy, coming up with me, offered an indifferent shrug. Then she gave new meaning to an age-old feminine quip: “Can’t blame a girl for trying, can you?”

I only scanned her face for information. Had she gone deep enough to learn that I was staying on with Siskin only because I intended to sabotage his conspiracy with the party?

For the first time in weeks I was finally out from under the pall of Fuller’s death. And the imagined incidents that had followed in the wake of that accident were like a nightmare losing its vivid focus in the fresh, wholesome light of dawn. I had come back from a terrifying brink, thanks to Avery Collingsworth.

Pseudoparanoia. It was so logical that I wondered why it had never occurred to either Fuller or myself that involvement with the total environment simulator and its too-real “little people” would pose unanticipated mental hazards.

There were still complications to be unraveled, of course. Dorothy Ford, for instance, had to understand that our escapade in the ESB den had meant nothing to me. Although I had enjoyed the swim, so to speak, I wasn’t going to make a habit of it. Not after the cortical excitation experiences had so clearly demonstrated my preoccupation with Jinx Fuller.

Dorothy had gathered as much, though. I found that out the next morning when I paused in front of her desk.

“About last night, Doug—” she offered distantly. “As I said, we both have our jobs. And I’ve got to do mine loyally. I have no choice.”

I wondered what sort of sword Siskin held over her. Mine had two edges—the threats of an accelerated police investigation into Fuller’s death, with me as the goat, and of his finally
not
deciding to let the simulator be used partly for sociological research.

“Now that we know the score,” Dorothy added less formally, “there won’t be any misunderstanding.” She softened further, touching my hand. “And, Doug, it can still be fun.”

I remained aloof, though, not knowing how much she had picked from my inner thoughts through the ESB hookup.

Anxiety over the possibility that she had learned and told Siskin of my intentions found full cause for amplification two days later. That was when he summoned me to the Inner Establishment.

The air limousine cushioned down on a landing shelf outside the one hundred and thirty-third level of the Establishment’s Babel Central. Siskin himself was waiting at the entrance to his office.

He hooked his hand over my shoulder and walked me across cloudlike Syrterene carpeting. Beside his acre-large, gold-trimmed desk, he paused and stared out through the vast window. Far below, the city was like a distant, fuzzy painting, obscured by haze and half hidden by drifting puffs of cotton.

Abruptly he said, “Something’s gone wrong with our legislation against the reaction monitors. It was tabled. There won’t be any action this session.”

I held back an amused smile over Siskin’s discomfiture. It was only the threat of having opinion sampling outlawed as a public nuisance that had blunted the ARM offensive against Reactions. “Apparently the monitors have more power than you figured them for.”

“But it doesn’t make sense. Hartson assured me he had the entire committee in his vest pocket.”

I shrugged. “Well, there goes your lever. Nothing will keep the pollsters from striking now.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that.” Suddenly he was grinning. “How articulate are you on the idea of using Simulacron-3 for carving out the millennium in human relations?”

Puzzled, I said, “I have my convictions. But I don’t suppose I’m prepared to deliver a speech on them.”

“And that’s
exactly
how I prefer it. That way the sincerity will show through.”

He spoke sharply into the intercom: “Send them in.”

They came in—a score of wirephotographers and reporters, network cameramen, roving commentators. They gathered around the desk, pinning us in a tight semicircle.

Siskin held up his hands for silence.

“As you know,” he said, “Reactions is feeling the pressure of organized coercion at the hands of the Association of Reaction Monitors. They will call a strike and bring down economic chaos, they tell us, unless we close shop and deprive the country of the greatest social advance of the age.”

He climbed upon a chair and shouted against the ripple of skeptical voices:

“All right—I know what you’re thinking: that this is a promotional stunt. Well, it isn’t! I’m fighting to save our simulator—
your
simulator—because it isn’t merely a money-making venture. It’s also the instrument that’s going to carve out a
bright, new future for the human race!
It’s going to lift man a mile high from the primeval slime in which he has wallowed since his dawn!”

He let that much sink in, then said: “I’m going to have the driving force behind the total environment simulator give you the details himself—Douglas Hall.”

Siskin’s strategy was not obscure. If he could make the public believe his simulectronic marvel was going to mass-produce glimmering halos for the human race, then no force, would be able to stand against REIN—not even the reaction monitors.

I faced the cameras uneasily. “The simulator offers vast opportunity for research in the field of human relations. That opportunity was uppermost in Dr. Fuller’s mind.”

I paused, suddenly aware of something that hadn’t occurred to me before: If public sentiment could beat down the ARM offensive, then it might also insure exclusive use of the system
for improving human relations!
The people would rise up in wrath against the Establishment whenever I decided to tell them Siskin’s machine would serve only political and personal ambitions!

Eagerly, I pushed on. “We have here a surgical instrument that can dissect the very soul itself! It can take a human being apart, motive by motive, instinct by instinct. It can dig to the core of our basic drives, fears, aspirations. It can track down and study, analyze, classify and
show us how to do something about
every trait that goes into the makeup of any individual. It can explain and uncover the sources of prejudice, bigotry, hate, perverse sentiment. By studying analog beings in a simulated system, we can chart the entire spectrum of human relations. By prodding those analog units, we can observe not only the beginning, but also
every step
in the development of undesirable, antisocial tendencies!”

Siskin stepped forward. “You can see, gentlemen, that Mr. Hall is somewhat of a fanatic on his subject. But the Siskin Establishment would have it no other way.”

I picked it up again. “In the conditioned environment of Simulacron-3, we expect to isolate various reactional units, from analog children on up through every age group. Systematically, we’ll nudge them first one way and then the other with every conceivable stimulus that will bring out the best and worst in them. We expect to advance the study of human behavior by thousands of years.”

What I was saying wasn’t original. I was only repeating phrases Fuller had tossed at me with boundless enthusiasm over the years. And I could but hope I was getting them across with sincerity equal to his own.

“The simulator,” I summed up, “will point the way to the Golden Age in human relations. It will show us how to cleanse the mortal spirit of the last vestiges of its animal origins.”

Siskin took over. “Before you start firing your questions, I want to clear up some of the less glamorous details. First, our Establishment went into this thing with the idea of making a profit. However, I have long since rejected that incentive. Now I want to devote all this organization’s energy to seeing that the wonderful things expected of Mr. Hall’s simulator are realized.”

I let him commit himself. When the time came, I would have only to let word of the Siskin-party conspiracy leak out.

“Reactions,” he said gravely, “is going to have a commercial function too. As much as I regret it, that’s the way it has to be. Oh, we could apply for government grants instead. But, gentlemen, you have to realize that this new, great Foundation can be beholden to
no one.
It must operate above all levels.”

One of the newsmen asked, “What do you mean by ‘commercial functions’?”

“Simply that the simulator will have to earn the considerable funds needed to carry out its humanitarian purpose. Reactions
will
accept commercial, behavior-forecasting contracts. But only a bare minimum of them. Only as many as will be necessary to make up the operational deficit that will recur annually, even after I endow the Foundation immediately with an additional two hundred and fifty million.”

That went over big with the press corps. And it tightened the noose even more securely around the Lilliputian Siskin neck.

We spent the next half hour fielding questions. It was apparent, though, that we had left no room for skepticism. After the newsmen left, Siskin did a fairylike dance and ended up embracing me.

“You put on a good show, son—a great show!” he exclaimed. “I couldn’t have done half as well!”

By the next day floodgates had opened to loose a surging tide of public opinion on the Siskin announcement. Among all the stories and videocasts, the human interest columns and editorial expressions, there was not an unfavorable word. Never before had I seen anything capture the general imagination as had Siskin’s “great humanitarian effort.”

Before noon, commendatory resolutions had been passed by the City Council and the State House of Representatives. On the national level, a concurrent Congressional measure was being drafted.

With the suddenness of an avalanche, new organizations were proposed as allies of the “noble endeavor.” Two mass meetings that evening drew out separate groups of enthusiasts who decided on the lofty names “Simulectronic Samaritans, Inc.,” and “Tomorrow—the Whole Human.” I suppose it would have been difficult to find anyone who wasn’t afire with idealism. The hoodwinking had been that complete.

Sensing the buildup of public support for REIN, the Association of Reaction Monitors prudently reduced the number of their pickets to a mere ten. But even then the police riot squad was reinforced to protect them from scores of irate Siskin sympathizers.

As for myself, I was riding a crest of elation, having climbed up out of the depths of self-doubt. Not only had my personal problems evaporated, thanks to Collingsworth’s counsel, but triumph over Siskin and the party seemed inevitable.

Smugly armed with the well-publicized evidence of my return to normalcy, I videoed Jinx the next afternoon for a dinner date. Although she seemed somewhat unimpressed with the humanitarian course Siskin had charted for Reactions, she promptly accepted my invitation. But I was left uncomfortable with the notion that she had been reluctant.

Determined to insure a proper start for a change, I brought her to John’s Late Sixties—exclusive, expensive, and fairly exuding an atmosphere that had been, as the ads had put it, “left untouched for over two generations.”

The sharp scent of food (natural edibles, not the synthetic stuff) under preparation in the adjoining kitchen eventually captured Jinx’s fancy. And, while we waited to eat, she gradually warmed up to the harmonies of antiquity that were all around us—the bluntly functional chairs and tables, the latter quaint with their “cloth” coverings; incandescent bulbs; a string ensemble that was doing a valiant job, I suppose, with its rock ‘n’ roll selections.

A waitress who came to ask what we wanted and later returned with the order was the crowning anachronism that brought Jinx around to full appreciation of the place.

“I think this is a fascinating idea!” she exclaimed over her salad of actual, green vegetables.

“Good. Then there’s no reason why we shouldn’t repeat it.”

“No. I don’t suppose there is.”

Had I detected perhaps a trace of restraint? Was it that she was still wary of me?

I took her hand. “Ever hear of pseudoparanoia?”

Puzzlement deprived her brow of some of its smoothness.

“I hadn’t either,” I went on, “until I spoke with Collingsworth. He explained that what I was experiencing was only the psychological effects of working with the simulator. What I’m trying to say, Jinx, is that I was off balance until a couple of days ago. But I’m squared away now.”

Her features, though alert, were somehow rigid in abstraction—soft and gentle, beautiful, yet at the same time cold and distant.

“I’m glad everything’s all right,” she said simply.

Somehow it wasn’t turning out quite as I had planned.

We were silent throughout most of the main course. Finally I decided I would put up with my hesitancy no longer.

I leaned across the table. “Collingsworth said that whatever upset me was just temporary.”

“I’m sure he was right.” Only her words were dull and heavy.

I reached for her hand. But she slid it tactfully out of range.

Discouraged, I said, “The night we took that ride—remember? You asked me what I wanted to find in life.”

She nodded, but only perfunctorily.

“This isn’t coming off as well as I thought it would,” I complained.

She sat there staring at me, indecision playing across her obviously troubled face.

Bewildered, I asked, “Didn’t you say something about having never stopped thinking of me?”

“Oh, Doug. Let’s not talk about it. Not now.”

“
Why
not now?”

She didn’t answer.

At first I had thought she was running from something vast and mysterious. Then I had imagined it was only I whom she feared. Now I didn’t know
what
to think.

She indicated her supposedly shiny nose, excused herself and headed across the floor, elegant in the rhythm of her motions and attracting admiring glances all the way.

Then my hands contracted into fists and I slumped forward. I sat there through long minutes, trembling, trying to pull back from the brink of a yawning blackness. The room wavered and faded and a thousand rivers of fire coursed through my head.

“Doug! Are you all right?”

Jinx’s solicitous voice, the touch of her hand on my shoulder brought me swimming back.

“It’s nothing,” I lied. “Just a headache.”

But as I went for her wrap, I wondered about Collingsworth’s assurance that the lapses had been only psychosomatic. Perhaps there was a lingering effect here that might be expected to continue for a while, even after the rest of the trouble had cleared.

My confusion only contributed to the silence between us as I cushioned Jinx home. At her door, I caught her arms and pulled her close. But she only turned her face aside. It was as though she had devoted the entire evening to but one purpose—discouraging me.