The Simulacra

11

Nat Flieger wondered, idly, if the chuppers had any ethnic music. EME was, in its impartial way, always interested. But still, that was not their task, here; ahead now lay the home of Richard Kongrosian, a pale green wooden frame building, three storey, with -- incredibly -- an ancient, brown, untrimmed, ragged palm tree growing in the front yard.

‘We've arrived.' Molly murmured.

The antique auto-cab slowed, gave forth a grating, indecisive racket, and then shut itself entirely off. It coasted to a stop and then there was silence. Nat listened to the far-off wind moving through the trees, and the faint spattering rhythm of the mist-like rain as it fell everywhere, on the cab and the foliage, the unkempt old wooden house with its tarpapered sun deck and many small, square windows, several of which were broken.

Jim Planck lit a Corina corona and said, ‘No signs of life.'

It was true. So evidently Goltz had been correct.

‘I think,' Molly said presently, ‘we've come on a wild goose chase.' She opened the door of the auto-cab and hopped gingerly out. The soil, under her feet, sank squashily. She made a face.

‘The chuppers,' Nat said. ‘We can always record the music of the chuppers. If they have any.' He too, climbed out; he stood beside Molly and they both gazed at the big old house, neither of them speaking.

It was a melancholy scene; no doubt of that. Hands in his pockets, Nat walked towards the house. He came up on to a gravel path which passed between elderly fuchsia and camellia bushes. Presently Molly followed. Jim Planck remained in the car.

‘Let's get it over with and then let's get out of here,' Molly said, and shivered, terribly cold in her bright cotton blouse and shorts.

Nat put his arm around her.

‘What's that for?' she demanded.

‘Nothing in particular. I just felt fond of you, all of a sudden. I'd be fond of anything, right now, that wasn't damp and squishy.' He hugged her briefly. ‘Don't I make you feel a little better?'

‘No.' Molly said. ‘Or maybe yes; I don't know.' She sounded irritable. ‘Go on up on to the porch, for chrissakes, and knock!' Pulling away from him she gave him a push forward.

Nat ascended the sagging wooden steps, on to the porch, and rang the doorbell.

‘I feel sick,' Molly said. ‘Why is that?'

‘The humidity.' Nat found it overwhelming, oppressive; he could hardly breathe. He wondered what the weather would do to the Ganymedean life form which was his recording apparatus; it liked moisture and so perhaps it would flourish, here. Perhaps the Ampek F-a2 could even live here on its own, survive in the rain forest indefinitely. This environment, he realized, is more alien to us than Mars would be. It was a sobering thought Mars and Tijuana ... closer than Jenner and Tijuana. Ecologically speaking.

The door opened. A woman wearing a pale yellow smock faced him, stood blocking the entrance and regarding him quietly, her brown eyes calm but oddly wary.

‘Mrs. Kongrosian?' he said. Beth Kongrosian was not bad looking. Her hair, tied back with a ribbon, was light brown, long; she might have been in her late twenties or early thirties. In any case she was slender and she stood well. He found himself studying her with respect and interest.

‘You're from the recording studio?' Her voice, low, had a toneless quality, a peculiar lack of affect. ‘Mr Dondoldo phoned and said you were on your way. It's a shame. You can come inside if you want, but Richard isn't here.' She held the door wide, then. ‘Richard is in the hospital, down in San Francisco.'

Christ, he thought. What lousy, miserable luck. He turned to Molly and they exchanged glances mutely.

‘Please come in,' Beth Kongrosian said. ‘Let me fix you coffee or dinner or something before you turn around and start back; it's such a long way.'

Nat said to Molly, ‘Go back and tell Jim. I'd like to take Mrs Kongrosian up on her offer; I could use a cup of coffee.'

Turning, Molly started back down the steps.

‘You look tired,' Beth Kongrosian said. ‘Are you Mr Flieger? I wrote the name down; Mr Dondoldo gave it to me. I know Richard would have been glad to record for you, if he were here; that's why it's all such a shame.' She led him into the living room. It was dark and cool, crowded with wicker furniture, but at least dry. ‘A drink,' she said. ‘What about gin and tonic? Or I have Scotch. What about Scotch on the rocks?'

‘Just coffee,' Nat said. ‘Thanks.' He inspected a photograph on the wall; it showed him a scene in which a man swung a small baby on a tall metal swing. ‘Is this your son?'

The woman, however, had gone.

He looked closer. The baby in the photograph had the chupper jaw.

Behind him, Molly and Jim Planck appeared. He waved them over, and they both examined the picture.

‘Music,' Nat said. ‘I wonder if they have any music.'

‘They can't sing,' Molly said. ‘How could they sing if they can't talk?' She walked away from the picture and stood with her arms folded, looking through the living room window at the palm tree outside. ‘What an ugly tree.' She turned to Nat. ‘Don't you agree?'

‘I think,' he said, ‘that there's room in the world for life of every kind.'

Jim Planck said quietly, ‘I agree.'

Returning to the living room, Beth Kongrosian said to Jim Planck and Molly, ‘What would you two like? Coffee? A drink? Something to eat?'

They conferred.

At his office in the Administration Building of Karp u. Sohnen Werke, Detroit Branch, Vince Strikerock received a phone call from his wife -- or rather his ex-wife -- Julie. Now Julie Applequist again, as she had been when he first met her. Looking lovely but worried and wildly distracted, Julie said, ‘Vince, that goddam brother of yours he's gone.' Wide-eyed, she gazed at him beseechingly. ‘I don't know what to do.'

He said in a deliberate, calming voice, ‘Gone where, Julie?'

‘I think -- ‘ She choked over the words. ‘Vince, he left me to emigrate; we talked about emigrating and I didn't want to, and I know he's gone ahead alone. He was determined to; I realize that now. I just didn't take it seriously enough.' Tears filled her eyes.

Behind Vince, his superior appeared. ‘Herr Anton Karp wants to see you in Suite Four. As soon as possible.' He glared at the screen, recognizing this as a personal call.

‘Julie,' Vince said clumsily, ‘I have to get off the line.'

‘Okay,' she said, nodding. ‘But do something for me. Find Chic. Won't you please? I'll never ask you for anything else again. I promise. I just have to have him back.'

I knew it wouldn't work out between you two, Vince said to himself. He experienced grim relish. Too bad, dear, he thought. Tough! You made a mistake; I know Chic and I know that women like you petrify him. You scared him into running, and he'll never stop or look back, now that he's begun. Because it's a one-way trip.

Aloud, he said, ‘I'll do what I can.'

‘Thanks, Vince,' she breathed tearfully. ‘Even if I don't actively love you any more I still -- ‘

‘Goodbye,' he said, and rang off.

A moment later he was ascending by elevator to Suite Four.

As soon as Anton Karp spied him Karp said, ‘Herr Strikerock, I understand that your brother is employed by a miserably tiny firm by the name of Frauenzimmer Associates. Is that correct?' Karp's heavy, sombre face was twisted with tension.

‘Yes,' Vince said slowly, with great caution. ‘But -- ‘ He hesitated. Obviously if Chic was emigrating he would be leaving his job; he could hardly take it with him.

What did Karp want? Better be on the safe side and not say anything unnecessary. ‘But, um ... ‘

Karp said, ‘Can he get you in there?'

Blinking, Vince said, ‘Y-you mean on the premises? As a visitor? Or do you mean -- ‘ He could feel apprehension mounting inside him as the cold blue eyes of the middleaged German ersatz industrialist bored into him. ‘I don't quite understand, Herr Karp,' he mumbled.

‘Today,' Karp said in a brisk, harsh staccato, ‘the government let the simulacrum contract to Herr Frauenzimmer. We have studied the situation and our response is dictated by circumstances themselves. Because of this order, Frauenzimmer will expand; he will take on new employees. I want you, through your brother, to go to work for them, as soon as you can arrange it. Possibly today.'

Vince stared at him.

‘What's the matter?' Karp said.

‘I'm -- surprised,' Vince managed to say.

‘As soon as Frauenzimmer's taken you on, inform me direct; don't talk to anyone else but me.' Karp paced about the large carpeted room, scratching his nose vigorously.

‘We'll tell you what to do next. That's all for now, Herr Strikerock.'

‘Does it matter what I do there?' Vince asked weakly. ‘I mean, is it important exactly what my job is?'

‘No,' Karp said.

Vince left the suite; the door at once slid shut after him.

He stood alone in the corridor, trying to reassemble his scattered, disorganized faculties. My god, he thought. They want me to throw my sabots into Frauenzimmer's assembly line; I know it. Sabotage or spying, one or the other; anyhow something illegal, something that'll bring the NP down on me -- me, not the Karps.

My own brother's outfit, too, he said to himself.

He felt utterly impotent. They could make him do anything they wanted; all the Karps had to do was lift their little finger.

And I'll give in, he realized.

He returned to his own office, shakily seated himself with the door shut; alone, he sat silently at his desk, smoking an ersatz-tobacco cigar and pondering. His hands, he discovered, were numb.

I've got to get out of here, he told himself. I'm not going to be a petty, minuscule, cipher-type minion for the Karp Werke -- it'll kill me.

He crushed his non-tobacco cigar out.

Where can I go? He asked himself.

Where? I need help.

Who can I get it from? There was that doctor. That he and Chic had been going to see.

Picking up the phone he signalled Karp's switchboard operator. ‘Get me Dr Egon Superb,' he instructed her, ‘that one analyst that's left.'

After that he sat miserably at his desk, the phone against his ear. Waiting.

Nicole Thibodeaux thought, I've got too much to do. I'm attempting to conduct delicate, tricky negotiations with Hermann Goering, I've instructed Garth McRae to let the new der Alte contract to a small firm and not to Karp, I have to decide what to do if Richard Kongrosian is ever found again, there's the McPhearson Act and that last analyst, Dr Superb, and now this. Now the NP's hasty decision -- made without even attempting to consult me or notify me in advance -- to move in on Loony Luke's jalopy lots in dead earnest.

Unhappily, she studied the police order which had gone out to every NP unit throughout the USEA.

This isn't in our interest, she decided. I can't afford to attack Luke because I simply can't get at him. We'll only look absurd.

And -- we'll look like a totalitarian society. Kept in existence only by our enormous military and police establishments.

Glancing up swiftly at Wilder Pembroke, Nicole said, ‘Have you actually found the lot, yet? The one in San Francisco where you can imagine -- merely imagine -- Richard is?'

‘No. We haven't found it yet.' Pembroke mopped his forehead nervously; quite clearly he was under heavy strain.

‘If there had been time of course I would have consulted you. But once he takes off for Mars -- ‘

‘Better to lose him than to move prematurely against Luke!' She had a good deal of respect for Luke; she had known him, and his operations, for a good long time. She had seen him easily evade the City Police.

‘I have an interesting report from the Karp Werke.' Obviously Pembroke was now desperately trying to switch the topic under discussion. ‘They've decided to penetrate the Frauenzimmer organization in order to -- ‘

‘Later.' Nicole scowled at him. ‘You know now you've made a mistake. Really, down underneath, I enjoy those jalopy jungles; they're amusing. You simply can't fathom that; you've got a cop's mind. Call your San Francisco unit and tell them to release the lot if they've found it. And if they haven't found it, tell them to give up. Bring them back in and forget about it; when the time arrives to proceed against Luke I'll tell you.'

‘Harold Slezak agreed -- ‘

‘Slezak doesn't make policy. I'm surprised you didn't get Rudi Kalbfleisch's approval on this. That would have been even more like you NP people. I really don't like you, I find you unsavoury.' She stared at him until he shrank back.

‘Well?' she said. ‘Say something.'

With dignity, Pembroke said, ‘They haven't found the lot, so no harm has been done.' He flicked on his com system.

‘Give up on the lots,' he said into it. At this moment he did not look very imposing; he was still perspiring freely.

‘Forget the whole damn thing. Yes, that's right.' He clicked the system off and raised his head to face Nicole.

‘You should be busted,' Nicole said.

‘Anything else, Mrs Thibodeaux?' Pembroke's voice was wooden.

‘No. Scram.'

Pembroke with measured, stiff steps, departed.

Looking at her wristwatch, Nicole saw that the time was eight P.M. And what had been planned for this evening? Shortly she would be going on TV with another Visit to the White House, the seventy-fifth of the year. Had Janet lined up anything and if so had Slezak managed to bumble through to an adequate schedule? Probably not.

She walked through the White House to Janet Raimer's tidy office. ‘Do you have anything spectacular coming along?' she demanded.

Rattling her notes, Janet frowned and said. ‘One act I'd call truly astonishing -- a jug act. Classical. Duncan & Miller; I watched them at The Abraham Lincoln and they're terrific.' She smiled hopefully.

Nicole groaned.

‘They really are quite good.' Janet's voice was insistent, now. Commanding. ‘It's relaxing: I'd like you to please give it a try. That's either for tonight or tomorrow, I'm not certain which Slezak scheduled it for.'

‘Jug acts,' Nicole said. ‘We've gone from Richard Kongrosian to that. I'm beginning to think we should let Bertold Goltz take over. And to think that in the Days of Barbarism they had Kirsten Flagstad to entertain them.'

‘Maybe things will pick up when the next der Alte takes office,' Janet said.

Regarding her keenly, Nicole said, ‘How is it that you know about that?'

‘Everybody in the White House is talking about it. Anyhow,' Janet Raimer bristled, ‘I'm a Ge.'

‘How wonderful,' Nicole said sardonically. ‘Then you must lead a truly delightful life.'

‘May I ask what this next der Alte will be like?'

‘Old,' Nicole said. Old and tired, she thought to herself. A worn-out stringbean, stiff and formal, full of moralizing speeches; a real leader type who can drum obedience into the Be masses. Who can keep the system creaking along a while longer. And, according to the von Lessinger technicians he will be the final der Alte.

At least, most likely.

And they are not certain quite why. We seem to have a chance but it is a small one. Time, and the dialectic forces of history are on the side of -- the worst creature possible. That vulgar buttinski, Bertold Goltz.

However, the future was not fixed and there was always room for the unexpected, the improbable; everyone who had handled von Lessinger equipment understood that ... time travel was still merely an art, not an exact science.

‘He will be called,' Nicole said, ‘Dieter Hogben.'

Janet giggled. ‘Oh no, not actually "Dieter Hogben", or is it "Hogbein"? What in the world are you trying to achieve?'

‘He will be very dignified,' Nicole said stiffly.

There was a sudden noise behind her; she turned and found herself facing Wilder Pembroke, the NP man. Pembroke looked agitated but pleased. ‘Mrs Thibodeaux, we've caught Richard Kongrosian. As Dr Superb predicted, he was at a jalopy jungle preparing to depart for Mars. Shall we bring him to the White House? The San Francisco squad is waiting for instructions; they're still at the lot.'

‘I'll go there,' Nicole decided, on impulse. And ask him, she said to herself, to give up the idea of emigrating. Voluntarily. I know I can persuade him -- we won't have to resort to blunt force.'

‘He says he's invisible,' Pembroke said, as he and Nicole hurried along the White House corridor towards the offtrans field on the roof. ‘The squad however says he appears perfectly visible, at least to them.'

‘Another of his delusions,' Nicole said. ‘We ought to be able to clear that right up; I'll tell him he's visible and that will be that.'

‘And his smell -- ‘

‘Oh, the hell with it,' Nicole said. ‘I'm tired of his ailments. I'm tired of having him pamper himself in his hypochondriacal obsessions. I'm going to toss the entire power and majesty and authority of the state at him, tell him pointblank that he's got to give his imaginary diseases up.'

‘I wonder what that will do to him,' Pembroke mused.

‘He'll comply, of course,' Nicole said. ‘He won't have any choice; that's the whole point -- I'm not asking him, I'm going to tell him.'

Pembroke glanced at her, then shrugged.

‘We've fooled around with this too long,' Nicole said.

‘Smell or not, invisible or not, Kongrosian is an employee of the White House; he's got to appear on schedule and perform, or else. He can't sneak away to Mars or Franklin Aimes or Jenner or anywhere else.'

‘Yes ma'am,' Pembroke said hollowly, preoccupied with his own convoluted thoughts.

When Ian Duncan reached Jalopy Jungle Number Three in downtown San Francisco he found that he was too late to warn Al. Because the NP had already arrived; he saw parked police cars and grey-clad NP men swarming over the lot.

‘Let me out here,' he instructed his auto-cab. He was a block away from the lot; that was close enough.

He paid the cab and then set out, warily, on foot. A small knot of curious passers-by with nothing else to do had formed, and Ian Duncan joined them, rubber-necking at the NP men, pretending to wonder why they were there.

‘What's up?' the man next to Ian asked him. ‘I thought they weren't going to crack down on these jalopy lots yet. I thought -- ‘

‘Must be a change in govpol,' the woman on Ian's left said.

‘ "Govpol," ‘ the man echoed, puzzled.

‘A Ge term,' the woman said haughtily. ‘Government policy.'

‘Oh,' the man said. He nodded meekly.

Ian said to him, ‘Now you know a Ge term.'

‘That's so.' The man perked up. ‘So I do.'

‘I knew a Ge term, once,' Ian said. He caught sight now of Al, inside the office, seated facing two NP men. Another man was with Al; in fact two other men. One, Ian decided was Richard Kongrosian. The other -- he recognized him; it was a fellow-inhabitant of The Abraham Lincoln Apartments, Mr Chic Strikerock from the top floor. Ian had run into him a number of times at meetings and in the cafeteria.

His brother Vince was currently their identification reader.

‘The term I knew,' he murmured, ‘was allost.'

‘What's "allost" mean?" the man beside him asked.

‘All's lost,' Ian said.

The term applied right now. Obviously, Al was under arrest; so in fact were Strikerock and Kongrosian, but Ian did not care about them -- he was thinking about Duncan & Miller, Classical Jugs; about the future which had opened up when Al had decided to play once more; the future which now had closed so decisively in their faces. I should have expected this, Ian said to himself. That just before we got to the White House the NP would step in and arrest Al, put an end to it all. It's the luck that's tracked me all my life. No reason why it should relent now.

If they've got Al, he decided, they might as well have me, too. Pushing through the knot of onlookers, Ian stepped up on to the lot and approached the nearest NP man.

‘Move on,' the grey-clad NP man said to him, motioning.

‘Take me,' Ian said. ‘I'm in on it.'

The NP man glared at him. ‘I said get going.'

Ian Duncan kicked the NP man in the groin.

With a curse the NP man groped in his coat, whipped out his pistol. ‘Damn you, you're under arrest!' His face had turned green.

‘What's going on here?' another NP man, higher in rank, demanded, walking up.

‘This jerk just kicked me in the crotch,' the first NP man said, holding his gun pointed at Ian Duncan and trying to keep from being ill.

‘You're under arrest,' the higher-in-rank NP man informed Ian.

‘I know,' Ian said, nodding. ‘I want to be. But eventually this tyranny will fall.'

‘What tyranny, you jerk?' the higher-in-rank NP man said. ‘Obviously you're confused. You'll cool off in jail.'

From the office in the centre of the lot Al appeared; he walked over sombrely. ‘What are you doing here?' he asked Ian. He did not look very pleased to see him.

Ian said, ‘I'm going along with you and Mr Kongrosian and Chic Strikerock. I'm not going to be left behind. There's nothing here for me, now.'

Opening his mouth, Al started to say something. But then a government ship, a gleaming silver and yellow offtrans vehicle, appeared overhead and began, with a tremendous series of noises, carefully to land. The NP men at once cleared everyone back; Ian found himself herded along with Al, over to a corner of the lot, still under the dark scrutiny of the first NP man, the one whom he had kicked in the groin, the one who now had it in for him.

The offtrans ship landed and from it stepped a young woman. It was Nicole Thibodeaux. And she was beautiful slim and beautiful. Luke had been wrong or lying. Ian gaped at her, and, beside him, Al grunted in surprise and said under his breath, ‘How come? I'll be darned; what's she doing here?'

Accompanied by an NP man of evidently colossal rank, Nicole bobbed across the lot to the office, she hurried up the steps, entered and approached Richard Kongrosian.

‘It's him she wants,' Al said in an aside to Ian Duncan. The piano player. That's what all this is about.' He got out an Algerian briar pipe and a pouch of Sail tobacco. ‘Can I smoke?' he asked their NP guard.

‘No,' the NP man said.

Putting his pipe and tobacco away, Al said wonderingly, ‘Imagine her coming here to Jalopy Jungle Number Three. I never would have figured on that.' Suddenly he grabbed Ian by the shoulder and squeezed violently. ‘I'm going over to her and introduce myself.' Before their NP guard could say anything Al started off at a trot; he threaded his way among the parked jalopies and in a split second he had vanished.

The NP man cursed impotently and prodded Ian with his gun. A moment later Al reappeared, at the entrance to the small office building in which Nicole stood talking to Richard Kongrosian. Al opened the door and pushed inside.

Richard Kongrosian was saying as Al opened the office door, ‘But I can't play for you; I smell too bad! You're far too close to me -- please, Nicole, dear, stand back, for chrissakes!' Kongrosian retreated from Nicole, glanced up and saw Al, and said appealingly, ‘Why did you take so long demonstrating that jalopy? Why couldn't we just have taken right off?'

‘Sorry,' Al said. To Nicole he said, ‘I'm Al Miller. I operate this lot.' He held out his hand to her. She ignored the hand, but she was looking his way. ‘Mrs Thibodeaux,' Al said, ‘let the guy go. Don't stop him. He has a right to emigrate if he wants. Don't make people into wooden slaves.'

That was all he could think of to say; it spilled out and then he was silent. His heart laboured. How wrong Luke had been. She was as beautiful as he could possibly imagine; it confirmed everything he had seen before in his original brief one-time glimpse from a distance.

Nicole said to him, ‘This is not your business.'

‘Yes, it is,' Al said. ‘Literally. This man is my customer.'

Now Chick Strikerock found his voice. ‘Mrs Thibodeaux, it's an honour, an incredible honour, to -- ‘ His voice wavered; he gulped air, trembled. And he could not continue. He backed away from her, frozen into silence, as if he had been turned off. Al felt disgusted.

‘I'm a sick man,' Kongrosian mumbled.

‘Bring Richard along,' Nicole said to the high NP official who stood beside her. ‘We're returning to the White House.'

To Al she said, ‘Your little lot can remain open; we're not interested in you one way or another. Some other tune, perhaps ... ‘ She eyed him, without malice, and, as she had said, without interest.

‘Stand aside,' the high-ranking grey-uniformed NP official ordered Al. ‘We're going out.' He shoved past Al, leading Kongrosian by the arm, businesslike and tough.

Nicole followed slightly after the two of them, her hands in the pockets of her long leopard-skin coat. She seemed pensive now, and had become silent. Withdrawn into her moody thoughts.

‘I'm a sick man,' Kongrosian mumbled once more.

To Nicole, Al said, ‘Can I have your autograph?' It was an impulse, a whim from the unconscious. Pointless and futile.

‘What?' She glanced at him, startled. And then she showed her even white teeth in a laugh. ‘My god,' she said, and then passed on out of the office after the high-ranking NP official and Richard Kongrosian. Al was left behind with Chic Strikerock, who was still trying to find words by which to express himself.

‘I guess I don't get her autograph,' Al said to Strikerock.

‘W-what do you think of her?' Strikerock stammered.

‘Lovely,' Al said.

‘Yes,' Strikerock said. ‘It's incredible; I never expected ever to actually see her, you know, in real life, actually. It's like a miracle, don't you agree?' He crossed to the window to peer after Nicole as she and Kongrosian and the NP bigwig moved towards the parked offtrans ship.

‘It would be easy as hell,' Al said, ‘to fall in love with that woman.' He, too, watched her depart. So did everyone else, including the squad of NP men. Far too easy, he thought.

And -- he would be seeing her again, presently he -- and Ian, too -- would be playing their jugs before her. Had that changed? No. Nicole had specifically said that no one was under arrest; she had countermanded the NP's order. He was free to keep the lot open. The NP would be leaving after all.

Al lit his pipe.

Coming up beside him, Ian Duncan said, ‘Well, Al, she cost you the sale of a jalopy.' By Nicole's order, the NP had let him go; he, too, was free.

Al said, ‘Mr Strikerock will still take it. Won't you, Mr Strikerock?'

After a pause Chic Strikerock said, ‘No, I've changed my mind.'

‘The power,' Al said, ‘of that woman -- ‘ He cursed, loudly and explicitly. And scatologically.

Chic Strikerock said, ‘Thanks anyhow. Maybe I'll see you some other time. Concerning that.'

‘You're a fool,' Al said, ‘to let that woman scare you out of emigrating.'

‘Maybe so,' Chic agreed, nodding.

Obviously it was hopeless to try to reason with him. Al could see that; so could Ian. Nicole had won another convert and she was not even here to enjoy it; she was not even interested. ‘Back to your job, is it?' Al said.

‘That's right.' Strikerock nodded. Back to the stale routine.'

‘You'll never make it here to this lot again,' Al said. ‘This is undoubtedly absolutely the last chance you'll ever have to break away in your entire life.'

‘Maybe so,' Chic Strikerock said, nodding morosely. But he did not budge.

‘Good luck,' Al said bitingly, and shook hands with him, ‘Thanks,' Chic Strikerock said, with no trace of a smile.

‘Why?'

Al asked him. ‘Can you explain to me why she affected you so?'

‘No, I can't,' Strikerock said. ‘I just feel it. I don't think it. It's not a logical situation.'

Ian Duncan said to Al, ‘And you felt it, too. I watched you. I saw the expression on your face.'

‘Okay!' Al said with irritation. ‘So what?' He walked away from them and stood by himself, smoking his pipe and gazing out the window of the office at the jalopies parked outside.

I wonder, Chic Strikerock wondered, if Maury will take me back. Maybe it's too late; maybe I burned my bridges too well. At a public phonebooth he dialled Maury Frauenzimmer at the factory. Taking a deep shuddering breath he stood with the receiver pressed to his ear, waiting.

‘Chic!' Maury Frauenzimmer yelled, when his image appeared. He beamed, expansive and younger-looking with a radiant, triumphant joy that Chic had never witnessed before. ‘Boy, am I glad you finally called! Come on back here, for chrissakes and -- ‘

‘What's happened?' Chic said. ‘What's up, Maury?'

‘I can't tell you. We got a big order; that's all I can say over the phone. I'm taking on men right and left. I need you back; I need everybody! This is it, Chic, what we've been waiting for all these goddam years!' Maury seemed almost on the verge of tears. ‘How soon can you get back here?'

Muddled, Chic answered, ‘Very soon. I guess.'

‘Also,' Maury said, ‘your brother Vince called. Trying to get hold of you. He wants a job. Karp fired him or he quit or something -- anyhow he's looking everywhere for you. He wants to get on here, situation-wise, alongside of you. And I told him if you recommended him -- ‘

‘Oh sure,' Chic said absently, ‘Vince is a first-rate ersatz technician. Listen, Maury. What is this order you've got?'

A slow, secretive expression appeared on Maury's wide face. ‘I'll tell you when you get here; don't you understand? So hurry!'

Chic said, ‘I was going to emigrate.'

‘Emigrate, shmemigrate. With this you don't have to, now. We're set up for life; take my word for it -- you, me, your brother, everybody! I'll see you.' Maury abruptly cut the connection at his end; the screen died.

It must be a government contract, Chic said to himself.

And whatever it is, Karp's lost it. That's why Vince is out of a job. And that's why Vince wants to work for Maury; he knows.

We're now a Ge outfit, Chic said to himself with exultation. We're at last, long last, on the inside.

Thank god, he thought, that I didn't emigrate. I drew back just on the brink, just in the nick of time.

Finally luck, he realized, is with me.

This was absolutely the best -- and most decisive -- day of his life. A day, in fact, which he would never forget as long as he lived. Like his boss Maury Frauenzimmer, he was all at once thoroughly, completely happy.

Later on, he was to look back to this day ...

But he did not know that now.

After all, he did not have access to von Lessinger equipment.