The Simulacra (8 page)

“I have an appointment,” she said to Janet. “Excuse me.” She rose, left the Camellia Room; two NP men fell in behind her as she made her way down the corridor to the Easter Lily Alcove where Garth McRae waited.

In the alcove Garth sat with another man whom she recognized—by his uniform—as a top official of the higher police. She did not know him. Evidently he had arrived with Garth; the two of them were consulting in low tones, unaware of her arrival.

“Have you informed Karp und Sohnen?” she asked Garth.

At once both men were on their feet, respectful and attentive. “Oh yes, Mrs. Thibodeaux,” Garth answered. “At least,” he added quickly, “I informed Anton Karp that the Rudi Kalbfleisch simulacrum is going to be discontinued soon. I—haven’t informed them that the next simulacrum will be obtained through other channels.”

“Why not?” Nicole asked.

Glancing at his companion, Garth said, “Mrs. Thibodeaux, this man is Wilder Pembroke, new Commissioner of the NP. He’s warned me that Karp und Sohnen have held a closed, secret meeting of their top executive personnel and have discussed the possibility that the contract for the next der Alte will be let somewhere else.” Garth explained, “The NP of course has a number of individuals employed at Karp—needless to say.”

Nicole said to the police official, “What will Karp do?”

“The Werke will make public the fact that the der Altes are constructs, that the last living der Alte held office fifty years ago.” Pembroke cleared his throat noisily; he appeared singularly ill-at-ease. “This is a clear violation of basic law, of course. Such knowledge constitutes a state secret and cannot be brought before the
Bes.
Both Anton Karp and his father Felix Karp are perfectly aware of that; they discussed these legal aspects at their conference. They know that they—and anyone else at policy level at the Werke—would be instantly liable to prosecution.”

“And yet they’d go ahead,” Nicole said, and thought to herself, So we’re correct;
the Karp people are already too strong.
Already possess far too much autonomy. And they won’t abandon this without a fight.

“Individuals high in cartel circles are peculiarly stiff-necked,” Pembroke said. “The last of the true Prussians, perhaps. The Attorney General has asked that you contact him before going ahead in this matter; he will be glad to outline the direction of the state’s litigation against the Werke, and he’s anxious to discuss several sensitive aspects with you. By and large, however, the Attorney General is prepared to move in at any time. As soon as he receives notification. However—” Pembroke glanced at her sideways. “I wonder. It’s the summation of all data reaching me that the cartel system as a whole is simply too enormous, too sturdily constructed and interlocked, to be brought down. That instead of direct action against it, some sort of quid pro quo be brought about. Such appears to me to be much more desirable. And feasible.”

Nicole said, “But that’s up to me.”

Both Garth McRae and Pembroke nodded in unison.

“I will discuss this with Maxwell Jamison,” she said finally. “Max will have a relatively clear idea as to how this information about the der Alte will be received by the
Bes,
by the uninformed public, I have no idea how they would react. Would they riot? Would they find it amusing? Personally I find it amusing. I’m sure it would appear that way to me if I were, say, a rather minor employee of some cartel or government agency. Do you agree?”

Neither man smiled; both remained tense and somber.

“In my opinion, if I may say so,” Pembroke said, “release of this information will topple the entire structure of our society.”

“But it
is
amusing,” Nicole persisted. “Isn’t it? Rudi is a dummy, an ersatz creation of the cartel system, and yet he’s the highest elected official in the USEA. These people voted for him and for the der Alte before him and so on back for fifty years— I’m sorry, but it has to be funny; there’s no other way to look at it.” She was laughing now; the idea of not knowing this Geheimnis, this state secret, and suddenly finding it out, was too much for her. “I think I’ll go ahead,” she told Garth. “Yes, I’ve made up my mind; contact the Karp Werke tomorrow morning. Talk directly with both Anton and Felix. Tell them, among other things, that we will arrest them instantly if they try to betray us to the
Bes.
Tell them that the NP is ready to move on them.”

“Yes, Mrs. Thibodeaux,” Garth said, with gloom.

“And don’t take it so hard,” Nicole said. “If the Karps do go ahead and release the Geheimnis, we’ll still survive—I think you’re wrong: it won’t mean the end of our status quo at all.”

Garth said, “Mrs. Thibodeaux, if the Karps release this information, no matter how the
Bes
react,
there can never be another
der Alte.
And legally speaking, you hold your position of authority only because you’re the wife. It’s hard to keep that in mind, because—” Garth hesitated.

“Say it,” Nicole said.

“Because it’s clear to everyone,
Bes
and
Ges
alike, that you are the ultimate authority in the establishment. And it’s essential to maintain the myth that somehow, indirectly at least, you were placed here by the people, by mass public vote.”

There was silence.

Pembroke said finally, “Perhaps the NP should move in on the Karps
before
they can put out their white paper. Thereby we’d cut them off from the organs of communication.”

“Even under arrest,” Nicole said, “The Karps would manage to gain access to at least one of the media. Better face that fact.”

“But their reputation, if they’re under arrest—”

“The only solution,” Nicole said thoughtfully, half to herself, “would be to assassinate those officers of the Werke who attended the policy meeting. In other words, all the
Ges
of the cartel, no matter how many there are. Even if the numbers ran up into the hundreds.” In other words, she said to herself, a purge. Such as one generally only witnessed in times of revolution.

She shrank from the idea.

“Nacht und Nebel,” Pembroke murmured.

“What?” Nicole said.

“The Nazi term for the invisible agents of the government who deal in murder.” He faced Nicole calmly. “Night and fog. They were the Einsatzgruppen. Monsters. Of course our police, the NP, has nothing like that. I’m sorry; you’ll have to act through the military. Not through us.”

“I was joking,” Nicole said.

Both men studied her.

“There are no more purges,” Nicole said. “There haven’t been any since World War Three. You know that. We’re too modern, too civilized, for massacres, now.”

Pembroke, frowning, his lips twitching nervously, said, “Mrs. Thibodeaux, when the technicians from the von Lessinger Institute bring Goering to our period, perhaps you can arrange for an Einsatzgruppe to be brought, too. It could assume responsibility vis-à-vis the Karps and then return to the Age of Barbarism.”

She stared at him open-mouthed.

“I’m serious,” Pembroke said, stammering slightly. “It certainly would be better—for us at least—than allowing the Karps to make public the information they possess. That’s the worst alternative of all.”

“I agree,” Garth McRae said.

“It’s insane,” Nicole said.

Garth McRae said, “Is it? Through von Lessinger’s principle we have access to trained assassins, and, as you pointed out, in our era no such professionals exist. I doubt if it would mean the destruction of scores or hundreds of individuals. I’d guess it could be limited to the board of directors, the executive vice-presidents of the Werke. Possibly as few as eight men.”

“And,” Pembroke pointed out eagerly, “these eight men, these top officers at Karp, are de facto criminals; they’ve deliberately met and conspired against the legal government. They’re on a par with the Sons of Job. With that Bertold Goltz. Even though they wear black bow ties every evening and drink vintage wine and don’t squabble in the gutters and streets.

“May I say,” Nicole said drily, “that all of us are de facto criminals. Because this government—as you pointed out—is based on a fraud. And of the most primary magnitude.”

“But it’s the
legal
government,” Garth said. “Fraud or not. And the so-called ‘fraud’ is in the best interests of the people. We’re not doing it to exploit anyone—as the cartel system does! We’re not out to engorge ourselves at somebody else’s expense.”

At least, Nicole thought, that’s what we tell ourselves.

Pembroke said respectfully, “Having talked just now to the Attorney General I know how he feels about the rising power of the cartels. Epstein feels they
must
be cut down. It’s essential!”

“Perhaps,” Nicole said, “you have a trifle too much respect for the cartels. I don’t. And—perhaps we should wait a day or so until Hermann Goering is with us and we can ask for an opinion from him.”

Now the two men were staring at her open-mouthed.

“I’m not serious,” she said.
Or was she?
She did not know herself. “After all,” she said, “Goering founded the Gestapo.”

“I could never approve of that,” Pembroke said, with hauteur.

“But you don’t make policy,” Nicole said to him. “Technically, Rudi does. That is, I do. I can compel you to act in my behalf in this matter. And you’d do it . . . unless, of course, you’d prefer to join the Sons of Job and march up and down the streets throwing rocks and chanting.”

Both Garth McRae and Pembroke looked uneasy. And acutely unhappy.

“Don’t be frightened,” Nicole said. “Do you know what the true basis of political power is? Not guns or troops but the ability to get others to do what you want them to do. By whatever means are appropriate. I know I can get the NP to do what I want—despite what you personally feel. I can get Hermann Goering to do what I want. It won’t be Goering’s decision; it’ll be mine.”

“I hope,” Pembroke said presently, “that you’re right, that you will be able to handle Goering. I admit that on a strictly subjective level I’m frightened, frightened of this entire experiment with the past. You may open the floodgates. Goering is not a clown.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Nicole said. “And don’t presume to give me advice, Mr. Pembroke. It’s not your place.”

Pembroke flushed, was silent a moment and then said in a low voice, “Sorry. Now, if it’s all right with you, Mrs. Thibodeaux, I’d like to bring up one other matter. It has to do with the sole remaining psychoanalyst now practicing in the USEA. Dr. Egon Superb. In explanation of the NP’s reason for allowing him to—”

“I don’t want to hear about it,” Nicole said. “I just want you to do your job. As you must know, I never did approve of the McPhearson Act in the first place. So you can hardly expect me to object when it is not fully applied.

“The patient in question—”

“Please,” she said sharply.

Pembroke, his face impassive and set, shrugged in obedience.

EIGHT

As they started into the auditorium on floor one of The Abraham Lincoln, Ian Duncan saw, trailing along behind Al Miller, the flat, scuttling shape of the Martian creature, the papoola. He stopped short. “You’re bringing that along?”

Al said, “You don’t understand. Don’t we have to win?”

After a pause, Ian said, “Not that way.” He understood, all right; the papoola would take on the audience as it had taken on passers-by. It would exert its extra-sensory influence on them, coaxing out a favorable decision. So much for the ethics of a jalopy salesman, Ian realized. To Al, this seemed perfectly normal; if they couldn’t win by their jug-playing they would win through the papoola.

“Aw,” Al said, gesturing, “don’t be our own worst enemy. All we’re engaged in here is a little subliminal sales technique, such as they’ve been using for a century—it’s an ancient, reputable method of swinging public opinion your way. I mean, let’s face it; we haven’t played the jug professionally in years.” He touched the controls at his waist and the papoola hurried forward to catch up with them. Again Al touched the controls—

And in Ian’s mind a persuasive thought came,
Why not?
Everyone else does it.

With difficulty he said, “Get that thing off me, Al.”

Al shrugged. And the thought, which had invaded Ian’s mind from without, gradually withdrew. And yet, a residue remained. He was no longer sure of his position.

“It’s nothing compared to what Nicole’s machinery can accomplish,” Al pointed out, seeing the expression on his face. “One papoola here and there, and that planet-wide instrument of persuasion that Nicole has made out of TV—there you have the real danger, Ian. The papoola is crude; you know you’re being worked on. Not so when you listen to Nicole. The pressure is so subtle and so complete—”

“I don’t know about that,” Ian said, “I just know that unless we’re successful, unless we get to play at the White House, life as far as I’m concerned isn’t worth living. And nobody put that idea in my head. It’s just the way I feel; it’s my own idea, dammit.” He held the door open, and Al passed on into the auditorium, carrying his jug by the handle. Ian followed, and a moment later the two of them were on the stage, facing the partially-filled hall.

“Have you ever seen her?” Al asked.

“I see her all the time.”

“I mean in reality. In person. So to speak, in the flesh.”

“Of course not,” Ian said. That was the entire point of their being successful, of getting to the White House. They would see her really, not just the TV image; it would no longer be a fantasy—it would be true.

“I saw her once,” Al said. “I had just put the lot down, Jalopy Jungle Number Three, on a main business avenue in Shreveport, Louisiana. It was early in the morning, about eight o’clock. I saw official cars coming; naturally I thought it was the National Police—I started to take off. But it wasn’t. It was a motorcade, with Nicole in it, going to dedicate a new apartment building, the largest yet.”

“Yes,” Ian said. “The Paul Bunyan.” The football team from The Abraham Lincoln played annually against its team, and always lost. The Paul Bunyan had over ten thousand inhabitants, and all of them came from administrative-class backgrounds; it was an exclusive apartment building of men and women verging on becoming
Ges.
And it had incredibly high monthly payments required of each tenant.

“You should have seen her,” Al said thoughtfully as he sat facing the audience, his jug on his lap. “You know, you always think that maybe in actual life they’re not—she’s not, I mean—as attractive as she shows up on the TV. I mean, they can control the image so completely. It’s synthetic in so many goddam respects. But—Ian, she was much more attractive. The TV can’t catch the vitality, the glow, all the delicate colors of her skin. The luminosity of her hair.” He shook his head, tapping the papoola with his foot; it had taken up a position beneath his chair, out of sight. “You know what it did to me, seeing her actually? It made me discontented. I was living pretty well; Luke pays me a good salary. And I enjoy meeting the public. And I like operating this creature; it’s a job that requires a certain artistic skill, so to speak. But after seeing Nicole Thibodeaux, I never really accepted myself and my life again.” He eyed Ian. “I guess that’s what you feel just seeing her on the TV.”

Ian nodded. He had begun to feel nervous now; in a few minutes they would be introduced. Their test had almost come.

“So that’s why,” Al continued, “I agreed to do this; get out the jug once more and have another try.” Seeing Ian gripping his jug so tautly, Al said, “Shall I use the papoola or not? It’s up to you.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow, but his face showed understanding.

Ian said, “Use it.”

“Okay,” Al said, and reached his hand inside his coat. Leisurely, he stroked the controls. And, from beneath his chair, the papoola rolled forth, its antennae twitching drolly, its eyes crossing and uncrossing.

At once the audience became alert; people leaned forward to see, some of them chuckling with delight.

“Look,” a man said excitedly. “It’s the papoola!”

A woman rose to her feet to see more clearly, and Ian thought to himself,
Everyone loves the papoola.
We’ll win, whether we can play the jugs or not. And then what? Will meeting Nicole make us even more unhappy than we are? Is that what we’ll get out of this: hopeless, massive discontent? An ache, a longing which can never be satisfied in this world?

It was too late to back out, now. The doors of the auditorium had shut and Don Tishman was rising from his chair, rapping for order. “Okay, folks,” he said into his lapel microphone. “We’re going to have a little display of some talent right now, for everyone’s enjoyment. As you can see on your programs, first in order is a fine group, Duncan & Miller and Their Classical Jugs with a medley of Bach and Handel tunes that ought to set your feet tapping.” He grinned crookedly at Ian and Al, as if saying, “How does that suit you as an intro?”

Al paid no attention; he manipulated his controls and gazed thoughtfully at the audience, then at last picked up his jug, glanced at Ian and then tapped his foot. “The Little Fugue in G Minor” opened their medley, and Al began to blow on the jug, sending forth the lively theme.

“Bum, bum, bum. Bum-bum-bum-bum bum bum de bum. DE bum, DE bum, de de-de bum . . .” His cheeks puffed out red and swollen as he blew.

The papoola wandered across the stage, then lowered itself, by a series of gangly, foolish motions into the first row of the audience. It had begun to go to work.

Al winked at Ian.

“A Mr. Strikerock to see you, doctor. Mr. Charles Strikerock.” Amanda Conners peeped into Dr. Superb’s inner office, conscious of the load of the last few days and yet at the same time doing her job, too. Superb was aware of this. Like a psycho-pomp, Amanda mediated between the gods and man; or rather in this case between the psychoanalyst and mere human beings. Sick ones at that.

“All right.” Superb rose to greet the new patient, thinking to himself,
Is this the one?
Am I here solely to treat—or rather to fail to treat—this particular man?

He had wondered that about each new patient in turn.

It made him tired, this ceaseless need to speculate. His thinking, ever since the passage of the McPhearson Act, had become obsessive; it went around and around, getting nowhere.

A tall, worried-looking, somewhat bald man with glasses slowly entered the office, his hand extended. “I want to thank you for taking me so quickly, doctor.” They shook. “You must have a terrific work schedule, these days.” Chic Strikerock seated himself facing the desk.

“To some extent,” Superb murmured. But, as Pembroke had said, he could not turn down any new patients; on that condition he remained open. “You look like I feel,” he said to Chic Strikerock. “Excessively trapped, over and above the norm. I guess we expect difficulties in living, but there ought to be some sort of limit.”

“To be open about it,” Chic Strikerock said, “I’m about ready to shuck everything, my job and—mistress . . .” He paused, his lips twisting. “And join the goddam Sons of Job.” He shot a glance of anguish at Dr. Superb. “That’s it.”

“All right,” Superb said, nodding in agreement. “But do you feel
compelled
to do this? Is it really a matter of choice?”

“No, I have to do it—I’ve got my back to the wall.” Chic Strikerock pressed his shaking hands together, interlocking his long, thin fingers. “My life in society as a career man—”

The phone on Superb’s desk winked, on off, on off. An urgent call which Amanda wanted him to take.

“Excuse me a moment, Mr. Strikerock.” Dr. Superb lifted the receiver. And, on the screen, the grotesquely-distorted miniature face of Richard Kongrosian formed, gaping as if the man were drowning. “Are you still in Franklin Aimes?” Superb asked, at once.

“Yes,” Kongrosian’s voice came in his ears from the short-range audio receiver. The patient, Strikerock, could not hear it; he fooled with a match, hunched over, clearly resenting the interruption. “I just now heard on TV that you still exist. Doctor, something terrible is happening to me.
I’m becoming invisible.
No one can see me. They only can smell me; I’m turning into nothing but a repellent odor!”

Jesus Christ, Dr. Superb thought.

“Can you see me?” Kongrosian asked timidly. “On your screen?”

“Yes I can,” Superb said.

“Amazing.” Kongrosian seemed somewhat relieved. “Then at least electronic monitoring and scanning devices can pick me up. Maybe I can get by that way. What’s your opinion? Have you had cases like this in the past? Has the science of psychopathology run up against this before? Does it have a
name?
”

“It has a name.” Superb thought, Extreme crisis of the sense of identity. This is the appearance of overt psychosis; the compulsive-obsessive structure is crumbling. “I’ll come over to Franklin Aimes this afternoon,” he told Kongrosian.

“No, no,” Kongrosian protested, his eyes bulging in frenzy. “I can’t permit that. In fact I shouldn’t even be talking to you by phone; it’s too dangerous. I’ll write you a letter. Goodbye.”

“Wait,” Superb said tersely.

The image remained on the screen. At least temporarily. But, he knew, Kongrosian would not stay for long. The fugal pull was too great.

“I have a patient,” Superb said. “So there’s little I can do at this moment. What if—”

“You hate me,” Kongrosian broke in. “Everyone does. Good god, I’ve
got
to be invisible! It’s the only way I can protect my life!”

“I would think there ought to be certain advantages to being invisible.” Superb said, ignoring what Kongrosian was saying. “Especially if you were interested in becoming a pruriently prying type of individual or a felon . . .”

“What kind of felon?” Kongrosian’s attention had been snared.

Superb said, “I’ll discuss that when I see you. I think we should make this as
Ge
as humanly possible. It’s just too valuable a situation. Do you agree?”

“I—hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“Do so,” Superb said.

“You envy me, do you doctor?”

“Very much so,” Superb said. “As an analyst I’m obviously quite a pruriently prying person myself.”

“Interesting.” Kongrosian seemed much calmer, now. “For instance, it occurs to me now that I can get out of this damn hospital any time I want. I can roam the land, in fact. Except for the smell. No, you’re forgetting the smell, doctor. It’ll give me away. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you’re not taking all the facts into account.” Kongrosian managed a brief, wavering smile. “I think the thing for me to do is bind myself over to the Attorney General, Buck Epstein, or if not that, go back to the Soviet Union. Maybe the Pavlov Institute can help me. Yes, I should try that again; I tried it once before, you know.” A new thought came to him, then. “But they can’t treat me if they can’t see me. What a mess this is, Superb. Goddam.”

Maybe the best thing for you, Dr. Superb thought, would be to do as Mr. Strikerock is considering doing. Join Bertold Goltz and the infamous Sons of Job.

“You know, doctor,” Kongrosian went on, “sometimes I think the actual basis of my psychiatric problem is that I’m unconsciously in love with Nicole. What do you say to that? I’ve just figured that out; it just came to me, and it’s replete with clarity! The incest taboo or barrier or whatever it is has been called out by the direction my libido has taken, because of course Nicole is a mother figure. Am I correct?”

Dr. Superb sighed.

Across from him Chic Strikerock fiddled miserably with his match, obviously growing more and more uncomfortable. The phone conversation had to be terminated. And right away.

But for the life of him, Superb could not figure out how to manage it.

Is this where I’m going to fail? He asked himself silently. Is this what Pembroke, the NP man, using von Lessinger’s principle, foresaw? This man. Mr. Charles Strikerock; I’m cheating him of his therapy—he’s being robbed by this phone conversation, right here before me. And there is nothing I can do.

“Nicole,” Kongrosian was saying rapidly, “is the last true woman in our society. I know her, doctor; I’ve met her countless times, due to my illustrious career. I know what I’m talking about, don’t you think? And—”

Dr. Superb hung up the phone.

“You hung up on him,” Chic Strikerock said, becoming fully alert. He ceased fooling with the match. “Was that right to do?” Then he shrugged. “I guess it’s your business, not mine.” He tossed the match away.

“That man,” Superb said, “has a delusion that’s overpowering. He experiences Nicole Thibodeaux as real. Whereas actually she’s the most synthetic object in our milieu.”

Shocked, Chic Strikerock blinked. “W-what do you mean?” Stammering, he half-rose to his feet, then dropped weakly back. “You’re fishing. Trying to probe my mind in the short time we’ve got. In any case, I’ve got a concrete problem, not a delusional one like he had, whoever he is. I’m living with my brother’s wife and using her presence to blackmail him; I’m forcing him to get me a job with Karp und Sohnen. At least that’s the problem on the surface. But under that there’s something else, something deeper. I’m
afraid
of Julie, my brother’s wife or ex-wife, whatever she is. And I know why. It has to do with Nicole. Maybe I’m like that man on your phone; only I’m not in love with her, with Nicole—I’m terrified of her and that’s why I’m scared of Julie, I guess in fact of all women. Does this make any sense, doctor?”