The Simulacra

8

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 extrasensory influence on them, coaxing out a favourable 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 away. 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 colours 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 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 on 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 the 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 see on your programmes, 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 Connors 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 psychopomp, 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 meet 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 shortrange 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 odour!'

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 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 the 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 who 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 u. 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 am 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?'

‘The image,' Superb said, ‘of the Bad Mother. Overpowering and cosmic.'

‘It's because of weak-fibred men like me that Nicole can rule,' Chic said. ‘I'm the reason why we've got matriarchal society -- I'm like a six-year-old kid.'

‘You're not unique. You realize that. In fact, it's the national neurosis. The psychological fault of our times.'

Chic Strikerock said slowly, deliberately, ‘If I joined Bertold Goltz and the Sons of Job I could be a real man.

‘There's something else you could do, if you want to break free of the mother, of Nicole. Emigrate. To Mars. Buy one of those flivvers, those Loony Luke jalopies, the next time one of his peripatetic jalopy jungles lands close enough for you to go aboard.'

Haltingly, with a strange expression, Chic Strikerock said, ‘My god. I never really seriously thought of that. It always seemed just -- frantic. Unreasonable. Done neurotically, in desperation.'

‘It would be better than joining Goltz, anyhow.'

‘What about Julie?'

Superb shrugged. ‘Take her along; why not? Is she good in bed?'

‘Please.'

‘Sorry.'

Chic Strikerock said, ‘I wonder what Loony Luke himself is like.'

‘A real bastard, I hear.'

‘Maybe that's good; maybe that's what I want. Need.'

Dr Superb said, ‘Time's up for today. I hope I helped you, at least a little. Next time -- ‘

‘You helped; you gave me a very good idea. Or rather, you ratified a very good idea inside me. Maybe I will emigrate to Mars; hell, why should I wait until Maury Frauenzimmer fires me? I'll quit right away and go locate a Loony Luke jalopy jungle. And if Julie wants to come, fine; and if not, also fine. She is good in bed, doctor, but not uniquely so. Not so good she can't be replaced. So -- ‘ Chic Strikerock rose from his chair. ‘I may not be seeing you again, doctor.' He held out his hand and they shook hands.

‘Drop me a postcard when you get to Mars,' Dr Superb said.

Nodding, Strikerock said, ‘I'll do that. Do you think you'll still be doing business here at this address?'

‘I don't know,' Dr Superb said. Perhaps, he thought, you are my last patient. The more I think about it the more I'm sure you're the one for whom I've been waiting. But only time would tell.

They walked together to the door of the office.

‘Anyhow,' Chic Strikerock said, ‘I'm not as bad off as that guy you talked to on the phone. Who was that? I think I've seen him somewhere before, or a picture of him. Maybe on TV; yes, that was it. He's some sort of a performer. You know, when you were talking to him I felt a sort of affinity towards him. As if we were both struggling together, both of us in deep, serious trouble and trying to get out some way, any way.'

‘Ummm,' Dr Superb said as he opened the door.

‘You're not going to tell me who he is; you're not allowed to. I understand. Well I wish him luck, whoever he is.'

‘He needs it,' Superb said. ‘Whoever he is. At this point.'

Caustically, Molly Dondoldo said, ‘How'd it feel, Nat, to be communicating with the great man himself? Because, of course, we all do agree; Bertold Goltz is the great man of our times.'

Nat Flieger shrugged. The auto-cab had now left the town of Jenner and was climbing a long grade, slower and slower, moving inland towards what appeared to be the rain forest proper, a huge damp mesa which seemed almost like something remaining from the Jurassic Period. A swamp of dinosaurs. Nat thought to himself. Not for humans.

‘I think Goltz made a convert,' Jim Planck said, with a wink at Molly. He grinned at Nat.

Rain, fine and light, had begun to descend silently; the windshield wipers of the auto-cab came on, throbbing in a loud rhythm that was both irregular and annoying. The auto-cab now turned from the main road -- which was at least paved -- on to a side road of red rock; the cab bumped along, pitching and wallowing; inside its mechanism gears changed as the cab creakily adjusted to the new conditions.

It did not sound to Nat as if the auto-cab was doing a very satisfactory job of things. He had the feeling that it was going to stop any moment now, would give up the job and quit.

‘You know what I expect to see along here?' Molly said, gazing up at the dense foliage on both sides of the narrow, ascending road. ‘I expect to see around the next bend a Loony Luke jalopy jungle, sitting there, parked waiting for us.'

‘Just for us?' Jim Planck asked. ‘Why just for us?'

‘Because,' Molly said, ‘we're about washed up.'

Around the next bend of the road there was a structure; Nat peered at it, wondering what it was. Old, shabby, abandoned-looking ... he realized all at once that he was seeing a gas station. Left over from the days of internal combustion engine autos. He was thunderstruck.

‘An antique,' Molly said. ‘A relic! How bizarre. Maybe we ought to stop and look at it. It's historical, like an old fort or an old adobe mill; please, Nat, stop the damn cab.'

Nat punched buttons on the dashboard and the auto-cab, groaning in an anguish of friction and malconceived selfcues, came to a stop before the gasoline station.

Warily, Jim Planck opened the door and stepped out. He had his Japanese-made camera with him and now he snapped it open, squinting in the dull, fog-shrouded light.

The mild rain made his face shiny; water dripped down the lenses of his glasses and he removed them, stuffing them into his coat pocket. ‘I'll take a couple shots of it,' he said to Nat and Molly.

In a soft voice Molly said to Nat, ‘There's someone in there. Don't move or say anything. He's watching us.'

Getting out of the cab Nat crossed the red rock road to the gasoline station. He saw the man inside rise and come to meet him; the door of the building swung open. A hunched man with a huge deformed jaw and teeth faced him; the man gestured and began to talk.

‘What's he saying?' Jim said to Nat, looking frightened.

The man, elderly, mumbled, ‘Hig, hig, hig.' Or so it sounded to Nat. The man was trying to tell him something and yet he could not. He continued to try. And Nat, at last, thought he made out real words; he strained to understand, cupping his ear and waiting while the great-jawed old man mumbled on, anxiously, still gesturing.

‘He's asking,' Molly said to Nat, ‘if we brought his mail.'

Jim said, ‘It must be a custom around here, for cars coming up this road to bring the mail from town.' To the elderly man with the massive jaw Jim said, ‘Sorry, we didn't know. We don't have your mail.'

Nodding, the man ceased his noises; he seemed resigned.

He clearly understood.

‘We're looking for Richard Kongrosian,' Nat said to the elderly man. ‘Are we on the right road?'

The man peered at him sideways, slyly. ‘Got any vegetables?'

‘Vegetables!' Nat said.

‘I can eat vegetables pretty good.' The elderly man winked at him and held out his hand, waiting, hoping.

‘Sorry,' Nat said, disconcerted. He turned to Jim and Molly. ‘Vegetables,' he said. ‘Could you understand him? That's what he said, isn't it?'

The elderly man mumbled, ‘I can't eat meat. Wait.' He fumbled in his coat pocket and brought out a printed card which he passed to Nat. The card, dirty and shabby, could barely be read; Nat held it up to the light, squinting as he sought to make out the printed lettering.

FEED ME AND I WILL TELL YOU

ANYTHING YOU WANT TO HEAR.

COURTESY OF THE CHUPPERS ASSN.

‘I am a chupper,' the elderly man said, and took the card suddenly back, returning it to his coat pocket.

‘Let's get out of here,' Molly said to Nat, quietly.

A radiation-spawned race, Nat thought. The chuppers of Northern California. Their enclave lay here. He wondered how many of them there were. Ten? A thousand? And this was where Richard Kongrosian had chosen to live.

But perhaps Kongrosian was right. These were people, despite their malformity. They received mail, probably had little jobs or tasks, perhaps lived on county relief if they couldn't work. They were bothering no one and certainly they were harmless. He felt discouraged at his own reaction -- his initial, instinctive aversion.

To the elderly chupper Nat said, ‘Would you like a coin?'

He held out a platinum five-dollar piece.

Nodding, the chupper accepted the coin. ‘Thankya.'

‘Does Kongrosian live along this road?' Nat asked once again.

The chupper pointed.

‘Okay,' Jim Planck said. ‘Let's go. We're heading the right way.' He glanced urgently at Nat and Molly. ‘Come on.'

The three of them re-entered the auto-cab; Nat started it up and they drove on past the gasoline station and the old chupper, who stood expressionlessly, watching them go as if he had once more become inert, turned off like a simulacrum, a mere machine.

‘Wow,' Molly said, and let out her breath raggedly. ‘What the hell was that?'

‘Expect more,' Nat said briefly.

‘Goodness god in heaven,' Molly said. ‘Kongrosian must be nutty as they say, living here. I wouldn't live up here in this swamp for anything. I wish I hadn't come. Let's record him at the studio, okay? I feel like turning back.'

The auto-cab crawled along, passed under trailing vines, and then all at once they were facing the remains of a town.

A rotting sequence of wooden buildings with faded lettering and broken windows, and yet not abandoned. Here and there, along the weed-split sidewalks, Nat saw people; or rather, he thought, chuppers. Five or six of them making their way haltingly along, on their errands, whatever they might be; god knew what one did here. No phones, no mail. Maybe, he thought, Kongrosian finds it peaceful here.

There was no sound, except that of the mist-like rain falling.

Maybe once you get used to it -- but he did not think he could damn well ever get used to it. The factor of decay was too much at work, here. The absence of anything new, of any blossoming or growing. They can be chuppers if they want or if they have to be, he thought, but they ought to try harder, try to keep their settlement in repair. This is awful.

Like Molly he wished, now, that he hadn't come.

‘I would think a long time,' he said aloud, ‘before I'd plunk my life down in this area. But if you could do it you'd have accepted one of the most difficult aspects of life.'

‘And what's that?' Jim asked.

‘The supremacy of the past,' Nat said. In this region the past ruled thoroughly, entirely. Their collective past: the war which had preceded their immediate era, its consequences. The ecological changes in everyone's life. This was a museum, but alive. Movement, of a circular sort ... he shut his eyes. I wonder, he thought, if new chuppers are born. It must be genetically carried; I know it is. Or rather, he thought, I'm afraid it is. This is a waning sporting, and yet -- it continues on.

They have survived. And that's good for the real environment, for the evolutionary process. That's what does it, from the trilobite on. He felt sick.

And then he thought, I've seen this malformity before.

In pictures. In reconstructions. The reconstructions, the guesses, were quite good, evidently. Perhaps they had been corrected through von Lessinger's equipment. Stooped bodies, massive jaw, inability to eat meat because of a lack of incisor teeth, great difficulty speaking. ‘Molly,' he said aloud, ‘you know what these are, these chuppers?'

She nodded.

Jim Planck said Neanderthal. They're not radiation freaks; they're throwbacks.'

The auto-cab crept on, through the chuppers' town.

Searching in its blind, mechanical way for the nearby home of the world-famous concert pianist Richard Kongrosian.