The Simulacra (19 page)

We’re destroying each other before their eyes. And—it may provide room for them, a space to squeeze into. Room, not cooped up here in this dreary, tiny enclave, but out in the world itself. Everywhere.

Grinning knowingly at one another the chuppers continued avidly to watch. And listen.

Nat’s fear grew.

The plump, red-headed man who had given Maury and Chic the ride said, “This is as far as I’m going, boys. You’ll have to hop out.” He slowed the car, stopped at the curb. They were in the city, now, off the autobahn. On every side, men and women scampered in panic, seeking shelter. A police car, its windshield shattered, nosed forward cautiously, the men inside bristling with weapons. “Better get indoors,” the red-headed man advised.

Warily, Chic and Maury emerged from the car.

“My place, The Abraham Lincoln,” Chic said, “is near here. We can walk it. Come on.” He waved big, overweight Maury ahead and the two of them joined the running mob of frightened, confused people. What a mess, Chic said to himself. I wonder how it’ll wind up. I wonder if our society, our style of life, will survive this.

“I feel sick at my stomach,” Maury groaned, puffing along beside him, his face gray from the exertion. “I’m—not used to this.”

They reached The Abraham Lincoln. It was undamaged. At the doorway their sergeant of arms, with a gun, stood beside Vince Strikerock, their identification reader; Vince was checking each person in turn, busy at his official task.

“Hi, Vince,” Chic said, when he and Maury arrived at the station.

His brother jerked, raised his head; they regarded each other in silence. At last Vince said, “Hi, Chic. Glad to see you’re alive.”

“Do we get in?” Chic said.

“Sure,” Vince said. He looked away, then; nodding to the sergeant of arms he said to Chic, “Go ahead. I’m sure glad the NP didn’t manage to corner you.” He did not look once at Maury Frauenzimmer; he pretended that Maury was not there.

“What about me?” Maury said.

In a strangled voice Vince said, “You—can go inside too. As Chic’s special invited guest.”

Behind them the next man in line said with urgent peevishness, “Hey, hurry up, will you! It isn’t safe out here.” He bumped Chic, nudging him on.

Quickly Chic and Maury passed on inside The Abraham Lincoln. A moment later they were ascending by a familiar means: a building elevator. To Chic’s top-floor apartment.

“I wonder what he got out of it,” Maury said musingly. “Your kid brother, I mean.”

“Nothing,” Chic said shortly. “Karp is gone. He and a lot of people are finished, now.” And Vince isn’t the only one I know of that group, he said to himself.

“Including us,” Maury said. “We’re no better off. Of course I guess a lot depends on who wins.”

“It doesn’t matter who wins,” Chic said. Not as far as he could make out, at least. The destruction, the great national disaster, was still there. That was the terrible thing about civil war; no matter how it came out it was still bad. Still a catastrophe. And for everyone.

When they reached the apartment they found the door unlocked. With massive caution Chic opened the door. And peeped inside.

There stood Julie.

“Chic!” she said, starting a step or so toward him. Beside her were two big suitcases. “I’ve been packing. I’ve made arrangements for you and me to emigrate.
I’ve got the tickets . . .
and don’t ask me how because I’ll never tell you.” Her face was pale but composed; she had dressed up quite a bit and looked, he thought, exceptionally fine. Now she saw Maury. “Who is this?” she asked, faltering.

“My boss,” Chic said.

“I just have two tickets,” Julie said hesitantly.

“That’s okay,” Maury said to her. He beamed at her, to reassure her. “I have to stay on Earth. I’ve got a major business enterprise to preside over.” To Chic he said, “I think she’s got a good idea. So this is the girl you told me about on the phone. The reason you were late to work, that morning.” He slapped Chic genially on the back. “Lots of luck to you, old buddy. I guess you’ve proved you’re still young—young enough, anyhow. I envy you.”

Julie said, “Our ship leaves in forty-five minutes; I was praying like hell you’d show up here. I tried to get hold of you at work—”

“The NP picked us up,” Chic told her.

“The army has control of the space field,” Julie said. “And they’re supervising the arrivals and departures of deep-space ships. So if we can just make it to the field we’ll be all right.” She added, “I put all your money and mine together to buy the tickets; they were incredibly expensive. And with those jalopy jungles gone—”

“You two guys better get started,” Maury said. “I’ll stay here in the apartment, if it’s okay with you. It appears to be reasonably safe here, all things considered.” He seated his weary, overstuffed body on the couch, managed to cross his legs, got out a Dutch Masters cigar and lit up.

“Maybe I’ll see you again, one of these days,” Chic said to him, awkwardly. He did not know exactly how to make the break, to leave.

“Maybe so,” Maury grunted. “Anyhow, drop me a line from Mars.” He picked up a magazine from the coffee table and leafed through it, his attention turned to it.

“What are we going to do on Mars to stay alive?” Chic asked Julie. “Farm? Or had you thought about that?”

“Farm,” she said. “Claim a piece of good land and get started irrigating it. I have relatives there. They’ll help us get started.” She picked up one of the suitcases; Chic took it away from her and then hoisted the other.

“So long,” Maury said, in a contrived, overly-light tone. “I wish you two luck scratching around in that red, dusty soil.”

“Good luck to you, too,” Chic said. I wonder who’ll need it the most, he wondered. You here on Earth or us on Mars.

“Maybe I’ll send you a couple of sims,” Maury said, “to keep you company. When this all blows over.” Puffing on his cigar, he watched the two of them go.

The blaring music had arrived once more now, and some of the hunched, massive-jawed chuppers had resumed their shuffling dancing. Nat Flieger turned away from the TV set.

“I think we’ve got enough on the Ampek,” he said to Molly. “We can start back to the Kongrosian’s house. We’re through, finally.”

Molly said somberly, “Maybe we’re through everywhere, Nat. You know, just because we’ve been the dominant species for a few tens of thousands of years it doesn’t insure that—”

“I know,” Nat said to her. “I saw their faces, too.” He led her back to where they had left the Ampek F-a2. Jim Planck followed and the three of them stood together, by the portable recording apparatus. “Well?” Nat said. “Shall we start back? Is it really over?”

“It’s over,” Jim Planck said, nodding.

“But I think,” Molly said, “we should stay here in the Jenner area until the fighting lets up. It wouldn’t be safe to try to fly back down below to Tijuana right now. If Beth Kongrosian will let us stay, let’s stay. Right there in the house.”

“All right,” Nat said. He agreed with her. Completely.

Jim Planck said abruptly, “Look. There’s a woman coming over here toward us. Not a chupper but a—you know, what we are, the same as us.”

The woman, slender and young, with short-cropped hair, wearing blue cotton trousers and moccasins and a white shirt, threaded her way through the shuffling gangs of chuppers.
I
know her,
Nat said to himself. I’ve seen her a million times. He knew her and yet he did not; it was terribly strange. So incredibly damn pretty, he thought. Almost grotesquely, unnaturally beautiful. How many women
that
attractive do I know? None. No one in our world, in our lives, is that attractive except—

Except Nicole Thibodeaux.

“Are you Mr. Flieger?” she called, coming up close to him, then, gazing up into his face; she was very small, he discovered. That had not been apparent over the TV transmissions. In fact he had always thought of Nicole Thibodeaux as looming large, even ominous; it was a distinct shock to find her otherwise. He could not exactly understand it.

“Yes,” he said.

Nicole said, “Richard Kongrosian put me here and I want to get back where I belong. Can you take me out of here in your auto-cab?”

“Sure,” Nat said, nodding. “Anything.”

None of the chuppers paid any attention to her; they seemed neither to know nor care who she was. Jim Planck and Molly, however, gaped in mute, awed disbelief.

“When are you leaving?” Nicole asked.

“Well,” Nat said, “we were going to stay. Because of the fighting. It seemed safer here.”

“No,” Nicole insisted, at once. “You have to go back, you have to do your part. Do you want them to win?”

“I don’t even know who you’re talking about,” Nat said. “I can’t make out exactly what’s going on, what the issues are or who’s fighting whom. Do you know? Maybe you can tell me.” But I doubt it, he thought. I doubt if you can turn it into something sensible for me—or for anyone else. Because it is just not sensible.

Nicole said, “What would it require to get you to take me back or at least out of here?”

Shrugging, Nat said, “Nothing. All at once he had made up his mind; he saw things clearly. “Because I won’t do it. I’m sorry. We’re going to wait this out, this event that’s going on. I don’t know how Kongrosian managed to put you here, but maybe he’s right; maybe this is the best place to be, for you and for us. For a long time to come.” He smiled at her. Nicole did not smile back.

“Damn you,” Nicole said.

He continued to smile.

“Please,” she said. “Help me. You were going to; you started to.”

Speaking up huskily, Jim Planck said, “Maybe he is helping you, Mrs. Thibodeaux. By doing this, by keeping you here.”

“I think Nat’s right, too,” Molly said. “I’m sure it’s unsafe for you at the White House right now.”

Nicole looked around fiercely at the three of them. Then, resignedly, she sighed. “What a place to be stuck in. Damn that Richard Kongrosian, too; it’s basically his fault. What
are
these creatures?” She gestured at the shuffling line of adult chuppers and the small, neo-chupper children who lined both sides of the great dusty, wooden hall.

“I’m not quite certain,” Nat said. “Relatives of ours, you could say. Progeny, very possibly.”

“Forefathers,” Jim Planck said, correcting him.

Nat said, “Time will tell which it is.”

Lighting a cigarillo, Nicole said vigorously, “I don’t like them; I’ll feel a lot happier when we get back to the house. They make me just dreadfully uncomfortable.”

“They should,” Nat said. Certainly, he shared her extreme reaction.

Around the four of them the chuppers danced their monotonous dance, paying no attention to the four human beings.

“I think, however,” Jim Planck said thoughtfully, “we’re going to have to get accustomed to them.”

PHILIP K. DICK

THE SIMULACRA

Philip K. Dick was born in Chicago in 1928 and lived most of his life in California. He briefly attended the University of California, but dropped out before completing any classes. In 1952, he began writing professionally and proceeded to write numerous novels and short-story collections. He won the Hugo Award for the best novel in 1962 for
The Man in the
High Castle and the John W. Campbell Memorial Award for best novel of the year in 1974 for
Flow My
Tears, the Policeman Said. Philip K. Dick died on March 2, 1982, in Santa Ana, California, of heart failure following a stroke.

NOVELS BY PHILIP K. DICK

Clans of the Alphane Moon
Confessions of a Crap Artist
The Cosmic Puppets
Counter-Clock World
The Crack in Space
Deus Irae
(with Roger Zelazny)
The Divine Invasion
Dr. Bloodmoney
Dr. Futurity
Eye in the Sky
Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said
Galactic Pot-Healer
The Game-Players of Titan
The Man in the High Castle
The Man Who Japed
Martian Time-Slip
A Maze of Death
Now Wait for Last Year
Our Friends From Frolix 8
The Penultimate Truth
Radio Free Albemuth
A Scanner Darkly
The Simulacra
Solar Lottery
The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch
Time Out of Joint
The Transmigration of Timothy Archer
Ubik
The Unteleported Man
VALIS
Vulcan’s Hammer
We Can Build You
The World Jones Made
The Zap Gun

FIRST VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, MAY 2002

Copyright © 1964 by Philip K. Dick, copyright renewed 1992 by
Laura Coelho, Christopher Dick, and Isa Hackett

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage
Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in paperback in the United States
by Ace Books, Inc., New York, in 1964.

Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks of
Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Dick, Philip K.
The simulacra / Philip K. Dick.
p. cm.

1. Androids—Fiction. 2. Presidents—Fiction. 3. First ladies—
Fiction. I. Title.
PS3554.I3 S46 2002
813’.54—dc21
2001056796

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eISBN: 978-0-307-42934-6

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