The Simulacra (6 page)

“Look,” Chic said, “you don’t have to lecture me about your virtues. I know more about you than you do yourselves.” And for good reason. Their presumption, their earnest sincerity, amused but also irked him. As next door neighbors this group of sims would be something of a nuisance, he reflected. Still, that was what emigrants wanted, in fact needed, out in the sparsely-populated colonial regions. He could appreciate that; after all, it was Frauenzimmer Associates’ business to understand.

A man, when he emigrated, could buy neighbors, buy the simulated presence of life, the sound and motion of human activity—or at least its mechanical near-substitute—to bolster his morale in the new environment of unfamiliar stimuli and perhaps, god forbid, no stimuli at all. And in addition to this primary psychological gain there was a practical secondary advantage as well. The famnexdo group of simulacra developed the parcel of land, tilled it and planted it, irrigated it, made it fertile, highly productive. And the yield went to the human settler because the famnexdo group, legally speaking, occupied the peripheral portions of his land. The famnexdo were actually not next door at all; they were part of their owner’s entourage. Communication with them was in essence a circular dialogue with oneself; the famnexdo, if they were functioning properly, picked up the covert hopes and dreams of the settler and detailed them back in an articulated fashion. Therapeutically, this was helpful, although from a cultural standpoint it was a trifle sterile.

The adult male said respectfully, “Here is Mr. Frauenzimmer now.”

Glancing up, Chic saw the office door swing slowly open; carefully carrying his cup of coffee and doughnut, Maury appeared.

“Listen, buddy,” Maury said in a hoarse voice. He was a short, round, perspiring man, like a reflection in a bad mirror. His legs had an inferior look, as if they just barely managed to support him; he teetered as he moved forward. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I guess I got to fire you.”

Chic stared at him.

“I can’t make it any longer,” Maury said. Gripping the handle of his coffee cup with his blunt, work-stained fingers he searched for a place to set it and the doughnut down, among the papers and manuals littering the surface of the desk.

“I’ll be darned,” Chic said. In his ears his voice sounded weak.

“You knew it was coming.” Maury’s voice had become a bleak croak. “We both did. What else can I do? We haven’t turned over a major order in weeks. I’m not blaming you. Understand that. Look at this famnexdo group hanging around here—just hanging. We should have been able to unload them long before now.” Getting out his immense Irish linen handkerchief, Maury mopped his forehead. “I’m sorry, Chic.” He eyed his employee anxiously.

The adult male simulacrum said, “This is indeed a distressing exchange.”

“I feel the same way,” its mate added.

Glaring at them, Maury spluttered, “Tough. I mean, mind your own darn business. Who asked for your artificial, contrived opinion?”

Chic murmured, “Leave them alone.” He was stunned at the news; emotionally, he had been caught totally by surprise, despite his intellectual forebodings.

“If Mr. Strikerock goes,” the adult male simulacrum stated, “we go with him.”

Sourly, Maury grunted at the simulacra. “Aw, what the hell, you’re just a bunch of artifacts. Pipe down while we thrash this out. We have enough troubles without you getting involved.” Seating himself at the desk he opened the morning
Chronicle.
“The whole world’s coming to an end. It’s not us, Chic, not just Frauenzimmer Associates. Listen to this item in today’s paper: ‘The body of Orley Short, maintenance man, was discovered today at the bottom of a six-foot vat of gradually hardening chocolate at the St. Louis Candy Company.’ ” He raised his head. “You get that ‘Gradually hardening chocolate’—that’s it. That’s the way we live. I’ll continue. ‘Short, 53, failed to come home from work yesterday, and—’ ”

“Okay,” Chic interrupted. “I understand what you’re trying to say. This is one of those times.”

“Exactly. Conditions are beyond any individual’s power. It’s when you got to be fatalistic, you know: resigned-like. I’m resigned to seeing Frauenzimmer Associates close forever. Frankly, that’s next.” He eyed the famnexdo group of simulacra moodily. “I don’t know why we constructed you fellows. We should have slapped together a gang of street hustlers, floozies with just enough class to interest the bourgeoisie. Listen, Chic, this is how this terrible item in the
Chronicle
ends. You simulacra, you listen, too. It’ll give you an idea of the kind of world you’ve been born into. ‘Brother-in-law Antonio Costa drove to the candy factory and discovered him three feet down in the chocolate, St. Louis police said.’ ” Maury savagely closed up the newspaper. “I mean, how are you going to work an event like that into your Weltanschauung? It’s just too damn dreadful. It unhinges you. And the worst part is that it’s so dreadful it’s almost funny.”

There was silence and then the male adult simulacrum, no doubt responding to some aspect of Maury’s subconscious, said, “This is certainly no time for such a bill as the McPhearson Act to come into effect. We require psychiatric help from whatever quarter we can obtain it.”

“ ‘Psychiatric help,’ ” Maury mocked. “Yeah, you’ve put your finger on it, Mr. Jones or Smith or whatever we named you. Mr. Nextdoor Neighbor, whoever you are. That would have saved Frauenzimmer Associates—right? A little psychoanalysis at two hundred dollars an hour for ten years . . . isn’t that how long it generally takes? Keerist.” He turned away from the simulacra, disgusted, and ate his doughnut.

Presently Chic said, “Will you give me a letter of recommendation?”

“Of course,” Maury said.

Maybe I’ll have to go to work for Karp und Sohnen, Chic thought. His brother Vince, a
Ge
employee there, could get him put on; it was better than nothing, better than joining the pitiful jobless, the lowest order of the vast
Be
class, nomads who roamed the face of Earth, now too poor even to emigrate. Or perhaps he should emigrate. Perhaps that time had at last come; he should face it squarely. For once give up the infantile ambitions upon which he had traded for so long.

But Julie. What about her? His brother’s wife made matters hopelessly complex; for example was he now responsible financially for her? He would have to thrash it out with Vince, meet him face to face. In any case. Whether he sought a position with Karp u. Sohnen Werke or not.

It would be awkward, to say the least, approaching Vince under these circumstances; the business with Julie had happened at a bad time.

“Listen, Maury,” Chic said. “You can’t lay me off, now. I’ve got a problem; as I related to you on the phone, I have a girl now who—”

“All right.”

“P-pardon?”

Maury Frauenzimmer sighed. “I said
all right;
I’ll keep you on a little longer. So it hastens the bankruptcy of Frauenzimmer Associates. So what.” He shrugged massively. “So
geht das Leben:
that’s life.”

One of the two children simulacra said to the adult male, “Isn’t he a good man, Daddy?”

“Yes, Tommy,” the adult male answered, nodding. “He most certainly is.” It patted the boy on the shoulder. The whole family beamed.

“I’ll keep you on until next Wednesday,” Maury decided. “That’s the best I can do, but maybe it’ll help a little. After that—I just don’t know. I can’t foresee anything. Even though I am slightly precognitive, as I’ve always said. I mean to a certain extent I’ve generally had valid hunches as to the future. Not in this case, though, not one damn bit. The entire thing is a mass of confusion, as far as I’m concerned.”

Chic said, “Thanks, Maury.”

Grunting, Maury Frauenzimmer resumed reading the morning paper.

“Maybe by next Wednesday something good’ll come along,” Chic said. “Something we don’t expect.” Maybe, as sales manager, I can bring in a huge order, he thought.

“Say, maybe so,” Maury said. He did not sound very convinced.

“I’m really going to try,” Chic said.

“Sure,” Maury agreed. “You try, Chic, you do that.” His voice was low, muffled by resignation.

SIX

To Richard Kongrosian the McPhearson Bill was a calamity because in a single instant it erased his great support in life, Dr. Egon Superb. He was left at the mercy of his lifelong illness-process, which, right at the moment, had assumed enormous power over him. This was why he had left Jenner and voluntarily checked in at Franklin Aimes Neuropsychiatric Hospital in San Francisco, a place deeply familiar to him; he had, during the past decade, checked in there many times.

However, this time he probably would not be able to leave. This time his illness-process had advanced too far.

He was, he knew, an anankastic, a person for whom reality had shrunk to the dimension of compulsion; everything he did was forced on him—there was for him nothing voluntary, spontaneous or free. And, to make matters worse, he had tangled with a Nitz commercial. In fact, he still had the commercial with him; he carried it about with him in his pocket.

Getting it out now, Kongrosian started the Theodorus Nitz commercial up, listening once more to its evil message. The commercial squeaked, “At any moment one may offend others,
any
hour of the day!
” And in his mind appeared the full-color image of a scene unfolding: a good-looking black-haired man leaning toward a blond, full-breasted girl in a bathing suit in order to kiss her. On the girl’s face the expression of rapture and submission all at once vanished, was replaced by repugnance. And the commercial shrilled, “He was not fully safe from offensive body odor! You see?”

That’s me, Kongrosian said to himself; I smell bad. He had, due to the commercial, acquired a phobic body odor; he had been contaminated through the commercial, and there was no way to rid himself of the odor: he had for weeks now tried a thousand rituals of rinsing and washing, to no avail.

That was the trouble with phobic odors; once acquired they stayed, even advanced in their dreadful power. At this moment he did not dare get close to any other human being; he had to remain ten feet away so that they would not become aware of the odor. No full-breasted blond girls for him.

And at the same time he knew that the odor was a delusion, that it did not really exist; it was an obsessive idea only. However, that realization did not help him. He still could not bear to come within ten feet of another human being—of any sort whatsoever. Full-breasted or not.

For instance, at this very moment Janet Raimer, chief talent scout from the White House, was searching for him. If she found him, even here in his private room at Franklin Aimes, she would insist on seeing him, would force her way close to him—and then the world would, for him, collapse. He liked Janet, who was middle-aged, had a waggish sense of humor and was cheerful. How could he bear to have Janet detect the terrible body odor which the commercial had passed on to him? It was an impossible situation, and Kongrosian sat hunched over at the table in the corner of the room, clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to think what to do.

Perhaps he could call her on the phone. But the odor, he believed, could be transmitted along the phone wires; she would detect it anyhow. So that was no good. Maybe a telegram? No, the odor would move from him to that, too, and from it to Janet.

In fact, his phobic body odor could contaminate the entire world. Such was at least theoretically possible.

But he had to have
some
contact with people; for instance, very soon now he wanted to call his son Plautus Kongrosian at their home in Jenner. No matter how hard one tried one could not entirely suspend interpersonal relationships, desirable as it might be.

Perhaps A.G. Chemie can help me, he conjectured. They might have a new ultra-powerful synthetic detergent which will obliterate my phobic body odor, at least for a time. Who do I know there that I can contact? He tried to recall. On the Houston, Texas Symphony Board of Directors there was—

The telephone in his room rang.

Carefully, Kongrosian draped a handtowel over the screen. “Hello,” he said, standing a good distance from the phone, hoping thereby not to contaminate it. Naturally, it was a vain hope, but he had to make the attempt; he was still trying.

“The White House in Washington, D.C.,” a voice from the phone stated. “Janet Raimer calling. Go ahead, Miss Raimer. I have Mr. Kongrosian’s room.”

“Hello, Richard,” Janet Raimer said. “What have you put over the phone screen?”

Pressed against the far wall, with as much distance between himself and the phone as possible, Kongrosian said, “You shouldn’t have tried to reach me, Janet. You know how ill I am. I’m in an advanced compulsive-obsessive state, the worst I’ve ever experienced. I seriously doubt if I’ll ever be playing publicly again. There’s just too much risk. For instance, I suppose you saw the item in the newspaper today about the workman in the candy factory who fell into the vat of hardening chocolate. I did that.”

“You did? How?”

“Psionicly. Entirely involuntarily, of course. Currently, I’m responsible for all the psychomotor accidents taking place in the world—that’s why I’ve signed myself in here at the hospital for a course of electroconvulsive shock. I believe in it, despite the fact that it’s gone out of style. Personally I get nothing from drugs. When you smell as bad as I do, Janet, no drugs are going to—”

Janet Raimer interrupted, “I don’t believe you really smell as badly as you imagine, Richard. I’ve known you for many years and I can’t imagine you smelling really genuinely badly, at least enough so to force a termination of your brilliant career.”

“Thanks for your loyalty,” Kongrosian, said gloomily, “but you just don’t understand. This is no ordinary physical odor. This is an idea type odor. Someday I’ll mail you a text on the subject, perhaps by Binswanger or some of the other existential psychologists. They really understood me and my problem, even though they lived a hundred years ago. Obviously they were pre-cogs. The tragedy is that although Minkowski, Kuhn and Binswanger understood me, there’s nothing they can do to help me.”

Janet said, “The First Lady is looking forward to your quick and happy recovery.”

The inanity of her remark infuriated him. “Good grief—don’t you understand, Janet? At this point I’m thoroughly delusional. I’m as mentally ill as it’s humanly possible to be! It’s incredible that I can communicate with you at all. It’s a credit to my ego-strength that I’m not at this point totally autistic. Anyone else in my situation would be.” He felt momentary, justified pride. “It’s an interesting situation that I’m facing, this phobic body odor. Obviously, it’s a reaction-formation to a more serious disorder, one which would disintegrate my comprehension of the Umwelt, Mitwelt and Eigenwelt. What I’ve managed to do is—”

“Richard,” Janet Raimer interrupted, “I feel so sorry for you. I wish I could help you.” She sounded, then, as if she were about to cry; her voice wavered.

“Oh well,” Kongrosian said, “who needs the Umwelt, Mitwelt and Eigenwelt? Take it easy, Janet. Don’t get so emotionally involved. I’ll be out of here, just as before.” But he did not really believe that. This time was different. And evidently Janet had sensed it. “However,” he went on, “I think in the meantime you’re going to have to search elsewhere for White House talent. You’ll have to forget me and strike out into entirely new areas. What else is a talent scout for, if not to do exactly that?”

“I suppose so,” Janet said.

My son, Kongrosian thought. Maybe he could appear in my place. What a weird, morbid thought that was; he cringed from it, horrified that he had let it enter his mind. Really, it demonstrated how ill he was. As if anyone could be interested, take seriously, the unfortunate quasi-musical noises which Plautus made . . . although perhaps in the largest, most embracing sense, they could be called
ethnic.

“Your current disappearance from the world,” Janet Raimer said, “is a tragedy. As you say, it’s my job to find someone or something to fill the void—even though I know that’s impossible. I’ll make the try. Thank you, Richard. It was nice of you to talk to me, considering your condition. I’ll ring off now, and let you rest.”

Kongrosian said, “All I hope is that I haven’t contaminated you with my phobic body odor.” He broke the connection, then.

My last tie with the interpersonal world, he realized. I may never speak on the phone again; I feel my world contracting even more. God, where will it end? But the electroconvulsive shock will help; the shrinkage process will be reversed or at least stalled.

I wonder if I ought to try to get hold of Egon Superb, he said to himself. Despite the McPhearson Act. Hopeless; Superb no longer exists—the law has obliterated him, at least as far as his patients are concerned. Egon Superb may still exist as an individual, in essence, but the category “psychoanalyst” has been eradicated as if it never existed. But how I need him! If I could consult him just one more time—damn A.G. Chemie and their enormous lobby, their huge influence. Maybe I can get my phobic body odor to spread to them.

Yes, I’ll put through a call to them, he decided. Ask about the possibility of the super detergent and at the same time contaminate them; they deserve it.

In the phone book he looked up the number of the Bay Area branch of A.G. Chemie, found it, and by psychokinesis dialed.

They’ll be sorry they forced passage of that act, Kongrosian said to himself as he listened to the phone connection being put through.

“Let me talk to your chief psych-chemist,” he said, when the A.G. Chemie switchboard had responded.

Presently a busy-sounding male voice came onto the line; the towel placed over the screen of the phone made it impossible for Kongrosian to see the man but he sounded young, competent, and thoroughly professional. “This is B Station. Merrill Judd speaking. Who is this and why do you have the vid portion blocked?” The psych-chemist sounded irritable.

Kongrosian said, “You don’t know me, Mr. Judd.” And then he thought.
Now it’s time to contaminate them.
Stepping close to the phone he whisked the towel from the screen.

“Richard Kongrosian,” the psych-chemist said, eyeing him. “Yes, I know you, know your artistry at least.” He was a young man, with a competent no-nonsense expression, a thoroughly detached schizoid person indeed. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. What can I do for you?”

“I need an antidote,” Kongrosian said, “for an abominable Theodorus Nitz offensive body odor commercial. You know, the one which begins: ‘In moments of great intimacy with ones we love, especially
then
does the danger of offending become acute,’ and so forth.” He hated even to think about it; his body odor seemed to become more powerful when he did so, if such was possible. He longed, then, for genuine human contact; he felt violently conscious of his encapsulation. “Do I scare you?” he asked.

Regarding him with his wise, professional intensity, the A.G. Chemie official said, “I’m not worried. Naturally I’ve heard discussions of your endogenous psychosomatic ailment, Mr. Kongrosian.”

“Well,” Kongrosian said tightly, “let me tell you that it’s
ex
ogenous; it’s the Nitz commercial that started it.” It depressed him to realize that strangers, that the entire world was aware of—was talking about—his psychological situation.

“The predisposition must have been there,” Judd said, “for the Nitz commercial to so influence you.”

“On the contrary,” Kongrosian said. “And as a matter of fact I’m going to sue the Nitz Agency, sue them for millions—I’m totally prepared to start litigation. But that’s beside the point right now. What can you do, Judd? You smell it by now, don’t you? Admit you do, and then we can explore the possibilities of therapy. I’ve been seeing a psychoanalyst, Dr. Egon Superb, but thanks to your cartel that’s over, now.”

“Hmm,” Judd said.

“Is that the best you can do? Listen, it’s impossible for me to leave this hospital room. The initiative has got to come from you. I’m appealing to you. My situation is desperate. If it worsens—”

“An intriguing request,” Judd said. “I’ll have to ponder for a while. I can’t answer you immediately, Mr. Kongrosian. How long ago did this contamination by the Nitz commercial take place?”

“Approximately one month ago.”

“And before that?”

“Vague phobias. Anxieties. Depression, mostly. I’ve had ideas of reference, too, but so far I’ve managed to abort them. Obviously, I’m struggling against an insidious schizophrenic process that’s gradually eroding my faculties, blunting their acuity.” He felt glum.

“Perhaps I’ll drop over to the hospital.”

“Ah,” Kongrosian said, pleased. That way I can be certain of contaminating you, he said to himself. And you, in turn, will carry the contamination back to your company, to the entire malign cartel which is responsible for shutting down Dr. Superb’s practice. “Please do,” he said aloud. “I’d very much like to consult you tête-à-tête. The sooner the better. But I warn you: I won’t be responsible for the outcome. The risk is entirely yours.”

“Risk? I’ll take the risk. What about this afternoon? I have a free hour. Tell me which neuropsychiatric hospital you’re in, and if it’s local—” Judd searched for a pen and tablet of paper.

They made good time to Jenner. Late in the afternoon they set down at the ’copter field on the outskirts of the town; there was plenty of time to make the drive by road to Kongrosian’s home in the surrounding hills.

“You mean,” Molly said, “we can’t land at his place? We have to—”

“We hire a cab,” Nat Fleiger said. “You know.”

“I know,” Molly said. “I’ve read about them. And it’s always a local rustic who acquaints you with the local gossip, all of which can be put in a gnat’s eye.” She closed her book and rose to her feet. “Well, Nat, maybe you can find out from the cab driver what you want to know. About Kongrosian’s secret basement of horrors.”

Jim Planck said huskily, “Miss Dondoldo—” He grimaced. “I think a lot of Leo but honest to god—”

“You can’t stand me?” she inquired, raising her eyebrows. “Why, I wonder why, Mr. Planck.”