The Simulacra (12 page)

“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 toward 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 gray-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, rubbernecking at the NP men, pretending to wonder why they were there.

“What’s up?” the man next to Ian asked. “I thought they weren’t seriously 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, Classic 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 of 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 onto the lot and approached the nearest NP man.

“Move on,” the gray-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 center of the lot Al appeared; he walked over somberly. “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 evident 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 his Algerian briar pipe and 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 labored. 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 Chic Strikerock found his voice. “Mrs. Thibodeaux, it’s an honor, an incredible honor, to—” His voice wavered; he gulped air, trembled. And 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 time, perhaps . . .” She eyed him, without malice, and, as she had said, without interest.

“Stand aside,” the high-ranking gray-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 toward 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 dialed Maury Frauenzimmer at the factory. Taking a deep, shuddering breath he stood with the receiver pressed to his ear, waiting.