The Simulacra (2 page)

“You’re not one of the City Police,” Dr. Superb said, eyeing him acutely. “Or perhaps you’re NP.” He looked uneasy, now. “Yes, that must be it.”

Pembroke, as he led the way to the elevator, said, “Just consider me an interested party.” He lowered his voice as a group of police officials passed them. “Interested in seeing you back in your office, treating your patients.”

“You have authority to do that?” Superb asked.

“I think so.” The elevator came and the two of them entered it. “It’ll take an hour or so to get you back there, however. Please try to be patient.” Pembroke lit a fresh cigar. He did not offer one to Superb.

“May I ask—what agency you are with?”

“I told you.” Pembroke felt irritable. “You’re simply to consider me an interested party; don’t you understand?” He glared at Superb, and neither of them spoke again until they had reached the second floor. “Sorry to be abrupt,” Pembroke said as they walked down the hall. “But I’m very concerned about your arrest. Very disturbed.” He held the door open, and Superb cautiously entered room 209. “Of course, I get disturbed rather readily. It’s my job, more or less.
Just as it’s your job not to permit yourself to become emotionally involved.
” He smiled, but Dr. Superb did not smile back. Too tense for that, Pembroke observed. Superb’s reaction fitted the profile contained in the dossier.

They seated themselves warily, facing each other.

Pembroke said, “There’s a man coming to consult you. Not far from now, going to be a patient of yours. You understand? So we want you to be there; we want your office open so you can accept him and treat him.”

Nodding, his face rigid, Dr. Superb said, “I—see.”

“The rest—the others you treat—we don’t care about. Whether they get sicker, get well, pay you a fortune, welsh on their bills—anything. Just this one individual.”

“And after he’s been treated,” Superb said, “then you’ll shut me down? Like all the other psychoanalysts?”

“We’ll talk about that then. Not right now.”

“Who is this man?”

Pembroke said, “I’m not going to tell you.”

“I assume,” Dr. Superb said after a pause, “you’ve used von Lessinger’s time travel apparatus to scout out my results with this man.”

“Yes,” Pembroke said.

“So you have no doubts. I will be able to cure him.”

“On the contrary,” Pembroke said. “You won’t be able to help him; that’s exactly why we want you there. If he obtains chemical therapy he’ll recover his mental balance. And it’s extremely important to us that he remain ill. So you can see, doctor, we need the continued professional existence of a quack, a practicing psychoanalyst.” Carefully Pembroke relit his cigar, which had gone out. “So your primary instructions are: turn down no new patients. You understand? However insane—or rather, however evidently sane.” He smiled; the doctor’s discomfort amused him.

TWO

Lights burned late in the great communal apartment building The Abraham Lincoln, as this was All Souls night: the residents, all six hundred of them, were required by their charter to attend, down in the subsurface community hall. They filed in, men, women and children; at the door Vince Strikerock, businesslike and cool, a good, solid bureaucratic official, operated their new identification reader, checking each of them in turn to be sure that no one from outside, from another communal apartment building, got in. The residents submitted good-naturedly and it all went very fast.

“Hey Vince, how much’d it set us back?” asked old Joe Purd, oldest resident in the building; he had moved in with his wife and two children the day the building, in May of 1992, had been built. His wife was dead now and the children had grown up, married and moved on, but Joe remained.

“Plenty,” Vince said quietly, “but it’s error-proof. It isn’t merely subjective.” Up to now, in his permanent job as sergeant of arms, he had admitted people merely by his ability to recognize them. But that way, he had let in a pair of goons from Robin Hill Manor and they had disrupted the entire meeting with their questions and comments. It would not happen again; Vince Strikerock had vowed that, to himself and to his fellow apartment dwellers. And he meant it.

Passing out copies of the agenda, Mrs. Wells smiled fixedly and chanted, “Item 3 A, Appropriation for Roof Repairs, has been moved to 4 A. Please make a note of that.” The residents accepted their agendas and then divided into two streams flowing to opposite sides of the hall; the liberal faction of the building seated themselves on the right and the conservatives on the left, each conspicuously ignoring the existence of the other. A few uncommitted persons—newer residents or oddballs—took seats in the rear, self-conscious and silent as the room buzzed with many small conferences. The tone, the mood of the room, was tolerant, but the residents knew that tonight there was going to be a clash. Presumably, both sides were prepared. Here and there documents, petitions, newspaper clippings rustled as they were read and exchanged, handed back and forth.

On the platform, seated at the table with the four building trustees, chairman Donald Tishman felt sick at his stomach. A peaceful man, he shrank from these violent squabbles. Even seated in the audience he found it too much for him, and here tonight he would have to take active part; time and tide had rotated the chair around to him, as it did to each resident in turn, and of course it would be the night the school issue reached its climax.

The room had almost filled and now Patrick Doyle, the current building skypilot, looking none too happy in his long white robe, raised his hands for silence. “The opening prayer,” he called huskily, cleared his throat and brought forth a small card. “Everyone please shut your eyes and bow your head.” He glanced at Tishman and the trustees, and Tishman nodded for him to continue. “Heavenly father,” Doyle read, “we the residents of the communal apartment building Abraham Lincoln beseech you to bless our assembly tonight. Um, we ask that in your mercy you enable us to raise the funds for the roof repairs which seem imperative. We ask that our sick be healed and that in processing applicants wishing to live amongst us we show wisdom in whom we admit and whom we turn away. We further ask that no outsiders get in and disrupt our law-abiding, orderly lives and we ask in particular that lastly, if it be thy will, that Nicole Thibodeaux be free of her sinus headaches which have caused her not to appear before us on TV lately, and that those headaches not have anything to do with that time two years ago, which we all recall, when that stagehand allowed that weight to fall and strike her on the head, sending her to the hospital for several days. Anyhow, amen.”

The audience agreed, “Amen.”

Rising from his chair, Tishman said, “Now, before the business of the meeting, we’ll have a few rewarding minutes of our own talent display for our enjoyment. First, the three Fetersmoeller girls from apartment number 205. They will do a soft-shoe dance to the tune of ‘I’ll Build a Stairway to the Stars.’ ” He reseated himself, and onto the stage came the three little blond-haired children, familiar to the audience from talent shows in the past.

As the Fetersmoeller girls, in their striped pants and glittery silver jackets, shuffled smilingly through their dance, the door to the outside corridor opened and a latecomer, Edgar Stone, appeared.

He was late, this evening, because he had been grading test papers of his next-door neighbor, Mr. Ian Duncan, and as he stood in the doorway his mind was still on the test and the poor showing which Duncan—whom he barely knew—had made. It seemed to him that without even having finished the grading of the test he could see that Duncan had failed.

On the stage the Fetersmoeller girls sang in their scratchy voices, and Stone wondered why he had come. Perhaps for no more reason than to avert a fine, it being mandatory for the residents to be here tonight. These amateur talent shows, put on so frequently, meant nothing to him; he recalled the old days when the TV set had carried entertainment, good shows put on by professionals. Now of course all the professionals who were any good were under contract to the White House, and the TV had become educational, not entertaining. Mr. Stone thought of the glorious old golden age, long since gone, of great old movies with comics such as Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine, and then he looked once more at the Fetersmoeller sisters and groaned.

Vince Strikerock, ever on duty, hearing him, glanced at him severely.

At least he had missed the prayer. He presented his identification to Vince’s expensive new machine and it allowed him to pass—lucky break!—down the aisle toward a vacant seat. Was Nicole watching this, tonight? Was a talent scout present somewhere in the audience? He saw no unfamiliar faces. The Fetersmoeller girls were wasting their time. Seating himself, he closed his eyes and listened, unable to endure watching. They’ll never make it, he thought. They’ll have to face it, and so will their ambitious parents; they’re untalented, like the rest of us. . . . The Abraham Lincoln has added little to the cultural store of the USEA, despite its sweaty, strenuous determination, and you are not going to be able to alter that.

The hopelessness of the Fetersmoeller girls’ position made him remember once more the test papers which Ian Duncan, trembling and waxen-faced, had pressed into his hands early that morning. If Duncan failed he would be even worse off than the Fetersmoeller girls because he would not even be living at The Abraham Lincoln; he would drop out of sight—their sight, anyhow—and would revert to a despised and ancient status; he would, in all probability, unless gifted with some special skills, find himself once more living in a dorm, working on a manual gang as they all had done back in their teens.

Of course he would also be refunded the money which he had
paid for his apartment,
a large sum which represented the man’s sole major investment in life. From one standpoint, Stone envied him. What would I do, he asked himself as he sat, eyes closed, if I had my equity back right now, in a lump sum? Perhaps, he thought, I’d emigrate. Buy one of those cheap, illegal jalopies they peddle at those lots which—

Clapping hands roused him. The girls had finished, and he, too, joined in the applause. On the platform, Tishman waved for silence. “Okay, folks, I know you enjoyed that, but there’s lots
more
in store, tonight. And then there’s the business part of the meeting; we mustn’t forget that.” He grinned at them.

Yes, Stone thought. The beezness. And he felt tense, because he was one of the radicals at The Abraham Lincoln who wanted to abolish the building’s grammar school and send their children to a public grammar school where they would be exposed to children from other buildings entirely.

It was the kind of idea which met much opposition. And yet, in the last weeks, it had gained support. Perhaps they were entering an odd and unusual time. In any case, what a broadening experience it would be; their children would discover that people in other apartment buildings were no different from themselves. Barriers between people of all apartments would be torn down and a new understanding would come about.

At least, that was how it struck Stone, but the conservatives did not see it that way. Too soon, they said, for such mixing. There would be outbreaks of fights as the children clashed over which building was supreme. In time it would happen . . . but not now, not so soon.

Risking the severe fine, small, gray, nervous Mr. Ian Duncan missed the assembly and remained in his apartment that evening, studying official Government texts on the political history of the United States of Europe and America. He was weak in that, he knew; he could barely comprehend the economic factors, let alone all the relpol ideologies that had come and gone during the twentieth century, directly contributing to the present situation. For instance, the rise of the Democratic-Republican Party. Once it had been two parties (or was it three?) which had engaged in wasteful quarrels, in struggles for power, just the way buildings fought now. The two—or three—parties had merged, about 1985, just before Germany entered the USEA. Now there was just the one party, which had ruled a stable and peaceful society, and everyone, by law, belonged to it. Everyone paid dues and attended meetings and voted, each four years, for a new der Alte—for the man they thought Nicole would like best.

It was nice to know that they, the people, had the power to decide who would become Nicole’s husband, each four years; in a sense it gave to the electorate supreme power, even above Nicole herself. For instance, this latest man, Rudolf Kalbfleisch. Relations between this der Alte and the First Lady were quite cool, indicating that she did not like this most recent choice very much. But of course being a lady she would never let on.

When did the position of First Lady begin to assume stature greater than that of President? the text inquired. In other words, when did our society become matriarchal, Ian Duncan said to himself. Around about 1990; I know the answer to that. There were glimmerings before that—the change came gradually. Each year der Alte became more obscure, the First Lady became better known, more liked, by the public. It was the public which brought it about. Was it a need for mother, wife, mistress, or perhaps all three? Anyhow they got what they wanted; they got Nicole and she is certainly all three and more besides.

In the corner of his living room the television set said taaaaanggg, indicating that it was about to come on. With a sigh, Duncan closed the official relpol textbook and turned his attention to the screen. A special, dealing with activities at the White House, he speculated. Another tour, perhaps, or a thorough scrutiny (in massively detailed depth) about a new hobby or passion of Nicole’s. Has she taken up collecting bone-china cups? If so, we will have to view each and every damn cup.

Sure enough, the round, heavy, wattled features of Maxwell W. Jamison, the White House News Secretary, appeared on the screen. “Evening, people of this land of ours,” he said solemnly. “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to descend to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean? Nicole has, and to answer the question she has assembled here in the Tulip Room of the White House three of the world’s foremost oceanographers. Tonight she will ask them for their stories, and you will hear them, too, as they were taped live, just a short while ago through the facilities of the Unified Triadic Network’s Public Affairs Bureau.”

And now to the White House, Duncan said to himself. At least vicariously. We who can’t find our way there, who have no talents which might interest the First Lady even for one evening: we get to see in anyhow, through the carefully regulated window of our television set.

Tonight he did not really want to watch, but it seemed expedient to do so; there might be a surprise quiz on the program, at the end. And a good grade on a surprise quiz might well offset the bad grade he had surely made on the recent relpol test, now being corrected by his neighbor, Mr. Edgar Stone.

On the screen bloomed now lovely, tranquil features, the pale skin and dark, intelligent eyes, the wise and yet pert face of the woman who had come to monopolize their attention, on whom an entire nation, almost an entire planet, dwelt obsessively. At the sight of her, Ian Duncan felt sick with fear. He had failed her; his rotten test results were somehow known to her and although she would say nothing, the disappointment was there.

“Good evening,” Nicole said in her soft, slightly husky voice.

“It’s this way,” Duncan found himself mumbling. “I don’t have a head for abstractions; I mean, all this religio-political philosophy—it makes no sense to me. Couldn’t I just concentrate on concrete reality? I ought to be baking bricks or turning out shoes.” I ought to be on Mars, he thought, on the
frontier.
I’m flunking out here; at thirty-five I’m washed up,
and she knows it.
Let me go Nicole, he thought in desperation. Don’t give me any more tests, because I don’t have a chance of passing them. Even this program about the ocean’s bottom; by the time it’s over I’ll have forgotten all the data. I’m no use to the Democratic-Republican Party.

He thought about his former buddy Al, then. Al could help me. Al worked for Loony Luke, at one of his Jalopy Jungles, peddling the little tin and cardboard ships that even defeated people could afford, ships that could, if luck was with them, successfully make a one-way trip to Mars. Al, he said to himself, could get me a jalopy wholesale.

On the TV screen, Nicole was saying, “And really, it is a world of much enchantment, with luminous entities far surpassing in variety and in sheer delightful wonder anything found on other planets. Scientists compute that there are more forms of life in the ocean—”

Her face faded, and a sequence showing unnatural, grotesque fish took its place. This is part of the deliberate propaganda line, Duncan realized. An effort to take our minds off Mars and the idea of getting away from the Party—and from her. On the screen a bulbous-eyed fish gaped at him, and his attention, despite himself, was captured. Jeez, he thought, it is a weird world down there. Nicole, he thought, you’ve got me trapped. If only Al and I had succeeded; we might be performing right now for you, and we’d be happy. While you interviewed world-famous oceanographers Al and I would be discreetly playing in the background, perhaps one of the Bach “Two Part Inventions.”