The Simulacra (17 page)

“All right,” Nicole said, nodding reasonably. It seemed a good idea to her. She would have acted against the Karps anyhow, without advice from these individuals.

“You look,” Goltz said, “as if you’re thinking that you don’t need us to tell you what to do. But actually you need us very badly. We’re going to tell you how to save your life, physically, literally, and secondarily your public office. Without us you’re dead right now. Please believe me; we’ve used the von Lessinger equipment and we know.”

“It’s just that I can’t get used to the idea of it being you,” Nicole said to Bertold Goltz.

“But it’s always been me,” Goltz said. “Even though you didn’t know it. Nothing has changed except you’ve found out, and that’s really very little in all this, Kate. Now, do you want to stay alive? Do you want to take instructions from us? Or do you want to be stood up against a wall somewhere by Wilder Pembroke and the Karps and be executed?” His tone was harsh.

Nicole said, “Of course. I’ll cooperate.”

“Good enough.” Goltz nodded and glanced around at his colleagues. “The first order you give—naturally through Rudi Kalbfleisch—is that Karp und Sohnen Werke throughout the USEA has been nationalized. All Karp assets now are the property of the USEA Government. Instruct the military this way: it’s their task to seize the Karps’ various branches; it’ll have to be done with armed units and possibly heavy mobile equipment. It should be done right away, possibly before tonight.”

“All right,” Nicole said.

“A number of army generals, three or four at least, should be sent to the main Karp installations in Berlin; they should arrest the Karp family personally. Have the Karps taken to the nearest military base, have them tried by a military tribunal and executed immediately, also before tonight. Now, as to Pembroke. I think it would be better if the Sons of Job sent commando assassins to get Pembroke; we’ll leave the military out of this aspect of the situation.” Goltz’s tone changed. “Why that expression on your face, Kate?”

“I have a headache,” Nicole said. “And don’t call me ‘Kate.’ As long as I’m in power you should continue to call me Nicole.”

“All this distresses you, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said. “I don’t want to murder anybody, even Pembroke and the Karps. The Reichsmarschall was enough—more than enough. I didn’t murder those two jug-players who brought that papoola into the White House so it could bite me, those two underlings of Loony Luke. I let them emigrate to Mars.”

“It can’t all be handled that way.”

“Evidently not,” Nicole agreed.

Behind Nicole the door of the shelter opened. She turned, expecting to see Janet Raimer.

Wilder Pembroke, with a group of NP men, stood in the doorway, pistol in hand. “You’re all under arrest,” Pembroke said. “The lot of you.”

Leaping to his feet, Goltz groped inside his coat.

With a single shot Pembroke killed him. Goltz toppled backward, plucking at his chair; the chair slammed back as it overturned and Goltz lay on his side beyond the oak table.

No one else moved.

To Nicole, Pembroke said, “You’re coming upstairs; you’re going to make a TV appearance. Right away.” He waved the barrel of his gun shakily at her. “Hurry up! The TV-cast begins in ten minutes.” From his pocket he managed to bring forth a much-folded sheet of paper. “Here’s what you’ll say.” He added, grimacing in what seemed almost a tic, “It’s your resignation from office, or rather so-called office. And in it you admit that both news stories are true, the one about der Alte and the one about yourself.”

Nicole said, “Whom do I abdicate in favor of?” Her own voice sounded thin in her ears but at least it was not pleading. She was glad of that.

“An emergency police committee,” Pembroke said. “Which will supervise the forthcoming general election, and then of course resign.”

The stunned, passive remaining eight members of the council started to follow Nicole.

“No,” Pembroke said to them. “You’re all staying down here.” His face was white. “With the police team.”

“You know what he’s going to do, don’t you?” one of the council members said to Nicole. “He’s given orders to have us killed.” The man’s words were hardly audible.

“There’s nothing she can do about it,” Pembroke said, and once more waved his gun at Nicole.

“We previewed this on the von Lessinger apparatus,” a female member of the council said to Nicole. “But we couldn’t believe it would happen. Bertold dismissed it. As too improbable. We thought such practices had died out.”

With Pembroke, Nicole entered the elevator. The two of them ascended to the ground-level floor.

“Don’t kill them,” Nicole said, “Please.”

Examining his wristwatch Pembroke said, “By now they’re already dead.”

The elevator doors slid open; the elevator had stopped.

“Go directly to your office,” Pembroke instructed her. “You’ll deliver the telecast from there. It’s interesting, isn’t it, that the council did
not
take seriously the long-shot possibility that I might get them before they got me. They were so convinced of their own absolute power that they assumed I’d go like a sheep to my own destruction. I doubt if they even took the trouble to preview these last few moments. They must have known there was a reasonably good chance that I’d gain power but they evidently didn’t follow up the situation and learn precisely
how
.”

“I can’t believe,” Nicole said, “that they could be so foolish. In spite of what they said and you said. With the von Lessinger equipment at their disposal—” It seemed impossible to her that Bertold Goltz and the others had simply let themselves be killed; logically, they should have been beyond reach.

“They were frightened,” Pembroke said. “And frightened people lose the ability to think.”

Ahead lay Nicole’s office.

On the floor before the doorway lay an inert form. It was Janet Raimer.

“We found ourselves in a position where we were coerced into doing that,” Pembroke said. “Or rather—let’s face it—we wanted to do it. Let’s be honest with each other, finally. No, I didn’t have to. Taking care of Miss Raimer was an act of pure, enjoyable volition.” He stepped over Janet’s body and opened the door to Nicole’s office.

In the office stood Richard Kongrosian.

“Something terrible’s happening to me,”
Kongrosian wailed, as soon as he spied the two of them. “I no longer can keep myself and my environment separate; do you comprehend how that feels? It’s awful!” He came toward them, visibly quaking; his eyes rolled with abject fear and sweat stood out on his neck and forehead and hands. “Can you understand?”

“Later,” Pembroke said to him, nervously. Again she saw the tic, the involuntary grimace. To her Pembroke said, “First, I want you to read over that material I gave you. Get started on it right away.” Once more he examined his wristwatch. “The TV technicians should have been here and set up by now.”

Kongrosian said, “I sent them away. They made it even more difficult for me. Look—see that desk? I’m now part of it and it’s part of me! Watch and I’ll show you.” He scrutinized the desk intently, his mouth working. And, on the desk, a vase of pale roses lifted, moved through the air toward Kongrosian. The vase, as they watched, passed into Kongrosian’s chest and disappeared. “It’s inside me, now,” he quavered. “I absorbed it.
Now
it’s me.
And—” He gestured at the desk. “I’m it!”

In the spot where the vase had been Nicole saw, forming into density and mass and color, a complicated tangle of interwoven organic matter, smooth red tubes and what appeared to be portions of an endocrine system. A section, she realized, of Kongrosian’s internal anatomy. Perhaps, she thought, his spleen and circulatory configurations that maintained it. The organ, whatever it was, regularly pulsed; it was alive and active. How elaborate it is, she thought; she could not take her eyes from it, and even Wilder Pembroke was gazing fixedly at it.

“I’m turning inside out!”
Kongrosian wailed. “Pretty soon if this keeps up I’m going to have to envelop the entire universe and everything in it, and the only thing that’ll be outside me will be my internal organs—and then most likely I’ll die!”

“Listen, Kongrosian,” Pembroke said harshly. He turned the gun toward the psychokinetic concert pianist. “What do you mean by sending the TV crew out of here? I need them in this office; Nicole’s going to address the nation. You go and tell them to come back.” He gestured at Kongrosian with the gun. “Or go get a White House employee who—”

He broke off. The gun had left his hand.

“Help me!” Kongrosian howled.
“It’s becoming me and I have
to be it!”

The gun vanished into Kongrosian’s body.

In Pembroke’s hand a spongy, pink mass of lung-tissue appeared; instantly he dropped it and at once Kongrosian shrieked with pain.

Nicole shut her eyes. “Richard,” she moaned gratingly. “Stop it. Get control of yourself.”

“Yes,” Kongrosian said, and giggled helplessly. “I can get hold of myself, pick myself up, the organs and vital parts all around me, lying on the floor; maybe I can stuff them back inside, somehow.”

Opening her eyes, Nicole said, “Can you get me out of here, now? Move me a long way off, Richard.
Please
.”

“I can’t breathe,” Kongrosian panted. “Pembroke has part of my breathing-apparatus and he dropped it; he didn’t take care of it—he let me fall.” He made a gesture toward the NP man . . .

Quietly, his face drained of color and the ordinary hopeful-ness of the process of life, Pembroke said, “He’s shut off something inside me. Some essential organ.”

“That’s right!” Kongrosian shrieked. “I shut off your—but I’m not going to tell you.” Slyly, he poked a finger at Pembroke, waggling it in his direction. “Only this; I’ll say this: you’ll live for about, oh, say, four more hours.” He laughed. “What do you say to that?”

“Can you turn it back on?” Pembroke managed to say. Pain had infiltrated his features now; he was suffering.

“If I want,” Kongrosian said. “But I don’t want to because I don’t have time. I’ve got to collect myself.” He scowled in rapt concentration. “I’m busy evicting every foreign object that’s managed to enter me,” he explained to Pembroke and Nicole. “And I want myself back; I’m going to
make
myself come back inside.” He glowered at the pink spongy mass of lung tissue. “You’re me,” he told it. “You’re part of the I-world, not the non-I. Understand?”

“Please take me a long way from here,” Nicole said to him.

“Okay, okay,” Kongrosian agreed irritably. “Where do you want to be? In another city entirely? On Mars? Who knows how far I can move you—I don’t. As Mr. Pembroke said, I haven’t really learned the political uses of my ability, even after all these years. But anyhow now I’m in politics.” He chuckled with delight. “What about Berlin? I can move you from here to Berlin; I’m confident of that.”

“Anything,” Nicole said.

“I know where I’ll send you,” Kongrosian exclaimed suddenly. “I know where you’ll be safe, Nicky. Understand, I
want
you to be safe; I believe in you, I know you exist. No matter what those damn news machines say. I mean, they’re lying.
I can tell.
They’re trying to shake my confidence in you; they’ve all ganged up, saying exactly the same thing.” He added by way of explanation, “I’m sending you to my home in Jenner, California. You can stay with my wife and my son. Pembroke can’t get you there because he’ll be stone dead by then; I’ve turned off another organ inside him, now, and this one—never mind which it is— this one is even more vital than the other. He won’t live another six minutes.”

Nicole said, “Richard, let him—” She ceased, then, because they were gone. Kongrosian, Pembroke, her office in the White House, everything had whipped out of existence and she stood in a gloomy rain forest. Mist drizzled from the shiny leaves; the ground underfoot was soft, impregnated with dampness. She heard no one. The moisture-saturated forest was utterly silent.

She was alone.

Presently she began to walk. She felt stiff and old and it was an effort to move; she felt as if she had stood there in the silence and rain for a million years. It was as if she had been there forever.

Ahead, through the vines and tangle of wet shrubbery she saw the outlines of a dilapidated, unpainted redwood building. A house. She walked toward it, her arms folded, shivering from the cold.

When she pushed the last branch aside she saw, parked ahead of her, an archaic-looking auto-cab. In the center of what appeared to be the house’s driveway.

Opening the door of the auto-cab she said, “Take me to the nearest town.”

The mechanism of the cab did not respond. It remained inert, as if it were moribund.

“Can’t you hear me?” she said loudly to it.

A woman’s voice came to her, from a distance. “I’m sorry, miss. That cab belongs to the record people; it can’t respond because it’s still under hire to them.”

“Oh,” Nicole said, and straightened up, closing the door of the cab. “Are you Richard Kongrosian’s wife?”

“Yes, I am,” the woman said, descending the board steps of the house. “Who are—” She blinked. “You’re Nicole Thibodeaux.”

“I was,” Nicole said. “Can I come indoors and get something hot to drink? I don’t feel too well.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Kongrosian said. “Please. Did you come here to find Richard? He’s not here; the last I heard from him he was at a neuro-psychiatric hospital in San Francisco, Franklin Aimes. Do you know it?”

“I know it,” Nicole said. “But he’s not there now. No, I’m not looking for him.” She followed Mrs. Kongrosian up the steps to the front porch of the house.

“The record people have been here three days,” Mrs. Kongrosian said. “Recording and recording. I’m beginning to think they’re never going to leave. They’re nice people and I enjoy their company; they’ve been staying here at night. They showed up originally to record my husband playing, under an old contract with Art-Cor, but as I said, he’s gone.” She held the front door open.