The Simulacra (7 page)

“Cut it out,” Nat said as he lugged his gear from the ’copter and set it down on the damp ground. The air smelled of rain; it was heavy and clinging and he instinctively rebelled against it, against the innate
unhealthiness
of it. “This must be grand for asthmatics,” he said, looking around. Kongrosian, of course, would not meet them; it was their job entirely to find his place— and him. They would be lucky, in fact, if he received them at all; Nat was well aware of that.

Stepping gingerly from the ’copter (she was wearing sandals) Molly said, “It smells funny.” She took a deep breath, her bright cotton blouse swelling. “Ugh. Like rotting vegetation.”

“That’s what it is,” Nat said as he helped Jim Planck with his gear.

“Thanks,” Planck murmured. “I believe I got it, Nat. How long are we going to be up here?” He looked as if he wanted to re-enter the ’copter and start right back; Nat saw on the man’s face overt panic. “This area,” Planck said, “always makes me think of—like in the kids’ book about the three billygoats gruff. You know.” His voice grated. “Trolls.”

Molly stared at him and then sharply laughed.

A cab rolled up to greet them, but it was not driven by a local rustic; it was a twenty-year-old autonomic, with a mute self-guidance system. Presently they had their recording and personal equipment aboard and the auto-cab was rolling from the field, on its way to Richard Kongrosian’s home, the address in the instruction-well of the cab acting as the tropism.

“I wonder,” Molly said, watching the old-fashioned houses and stores of the town pass by, “what they do for entertainment up here?”

Nat said, “Maybe they come down to the ’copter field and watch the outsiders who occasionally wander in.” Like us, he thought, seeing people along the sidewalk here and there glance up curiously.

We’re the entertainment, he decided. There certainly did not appear to be much else; the town looked as it must have before the fracas of 1980; the stores had tilted glass and plastic fronts, now chipped and in disrepair beyond belief. And, by a huge, abandoned, obsolete supermarket, he saw an empty parking lot: space for surface vehicles which no longer existed.

For a man of ability to live here, Nat decided, it must be a form of suicide. It could only be a subtle self-destructiveness that would cause Kongrosian to leave the vast and busy urban complex of Warsaw, one of the brightest centers of human activity and communication in the world, and come to this dismal, rain-drenched, decaying town. Or—a form of penance. Could that be it? To punish himself for god knew what, perhaps something having to do with his special-birth son . . . assuming that what Molly said was correct.

He thought about Jim Planck’s joke, the one about the psychokinecist Richard Kongrosian being in a pubtrans accident and growing hands. But Kongrosian
had
hands; he simply did not need to employ them in his music. Without them he could obtain more nuances of tonal coloring, more precise rhythms and phrasing. The entire somatic component was bypassed; the mind of the artist applied itself directly to the keyboard.

Do these people along these deteriorating streets know who lives among them? Nat wondered. Probably not. Probably Kongrosian keeps to himself, lives with his family and ignores the community. A recluse, and who wouldn’t be, up here? And if they did know about Kongrosian they would be suspicious of him, because he was an artist and because he was also a Psi; it was a double burden to bear. No doubt in his concourse with these people—when he bought at the local grocery store—he eliminated his psychokinetic faculty and used his manual extremities like everyone else. Unless Kongrosian had even more courage than Nat realized . . .

“When I get to be a world-famous artist,” Jim Planck said, “the first thing I’m going to do is move to a backwater boon-dock like this.” His voice was laden with sarcasm. “It’ll be my reward.”

“Yes,” Nat said, “it must be nice to be able to cash in on one’s talent.” He spoke absently; ahead he saw a throng of people and his attention had turned that way. Banners, and marchers in uniform . . . he was seeing, he realized, a demonstration by political extremists, the so-called Sons of Job, neo-Nazis who seemed to have sprung up everywhere, of late, even here in this god-forsaken town in Northern California.

And yet wasn’t this actually the most likely place for the Sons of Job to show themselves? This decadent region reeked of defeat; here lived those who had failed,
Bes
who held no real role in the system. The Sons of Job, like the Nazis of the past, fed on disappointment, on the disinherited. Yes, these backwater towns which time had bypassed were the movement’s authentic feeding-ground. . . . It should not have surprised him, then, to see this.

But these were not Germans; these were Americans.

It was a sobering thought. Because he could not dismiss the Sons of Job as a symptom of the ceaseless, unchanging derangement of the German mentality; that was too pat, too simple. These were his own people marching here today, his country-men. It could have been him, too; if he were to lose his job with EME or suffer some crushing, humiliating social experience—

“Look at them,” Molly said.

“I am looking,” Nat answered.

“And you’re thinking, ‘It could be me.’ Right? Frankly, I doubt if you have the guts to march in public in support of your convictions; in fact I doubt if you have any convictions. Look. There’s Goltz.”

She was correct. Bertold Goltz, the Leader, was present here today. How oddly the man came and went; it was never possible to predict where and when he might pop up.

Perhaps Goltz had the use of von Lessinger’s principle. The use of time travel.

That would give Goltz, Nat reflected, a certain advantage over all the charismatic leaders of the past, in that it would make him more or less eternal. He could not in the customary fashion be killed. This would explain why the government had not crushed the movement; he had wondered about that, why Nicole tolerated it. She tolerated it because she had to.

Technically, Goltz could be murdered, but an earlier Goltz would simply move into the future and replace him; Goltz would go on, not aging or changing, and the movement would ultimately benefit because they would have a leader who could be counted on not to go the way of Adolf Hitler: would not develop paresis or any other degenerative disease.

Jim Planck, absorbed in the sight, murmured, “Handsome son-of-a-gun, isn’t he?” He, too, seemed impressed.

The man could have had a career in movies or TV, Nat reflected. Been that sort of entertainer, rather than the kind he was. Goltz had style. Tall, clouded-over in a sort of tense gloom . . . and yet, Nat noticed, just a trifle too heavy. Goltz appeared to be in his mid-forties and the leanness, the muscularity of youth, had abandoned him. As he marched he sweated. What a
physical
quality the man had; there was nothing ghostly or ethereal about him, no spirituality to offset the stubborn beef.

The marchers turned, came head-on toward their auto-cab.

The cab halted.

Molly said caustically, “He even commands the obedience of machines. At least the local ones.” She laughed briefly, uneasily.

“We’d better get out of the way,” Jim Planck said, “or they’re going to be swarming over us like Martian column ants.” He fiddled with the controls of the auto-cab. “Damn this worn-out contraption; it’s dead as a doornail.”

“Killed by awe,” Molly said.

The first line of marchers contained Goltz, who strode along in the center, transporting a flowing, multi-colored cloth banner. Seeing them, Goltz yelled something. Nat could not catch it.

“He’s telling us to get out of the way,” Molly said. “Maybe we’d better forget about recording Kongrosian and step out and join him. Sign up for the movement. What do you say, Nat? Here’s your chance. You can rightfully say you were forced to.” She opened the door of the cab and hopped lightly out onto the sidewalk. “I’m not giving up my life because of a stalled circuit in an auto-cab twenty years out of date.”

“Hail, mighty leader,” Jim Planck said, shortly, and also hopped out to join Molly on the sidewalk, out of the path of the marchers, who were, now as a body, shouting angrily and gesturing.

Nat said, “I’m staying here.” He remained where he was, surrounded by the recording equipment, his hand reflexively resting on his precious Ampek F-a2; he did not intend to abandon it, even to Bertold Goltz.

Coming rapidly down the street, Goltz all at once grinned. It was a sympathetic grin, as if Goltz, despite the seriousness of his political intentions, had room left in his heart for a trace of empathy.

“You got troubles, too?” Goltz called to Nat. Now the first rank of marchers—including the Leader—had reached the old, stalled auto-cab; the rank divided and dribbled past, raggedly, on both sides. Goltz, however, halted. He brought out a rumpled red handkerchief and mopped the shiny, steaming flesh of his neck and brow.

“Sorry I’m in your way,” Nat said.

“Heck,” Goltz said, “I was expecting you.” He glanced up, his dark, intelligent, luminous eyes alert. “Nat Flieger, head of Artists and Repertoire for Electronic Musical Enterprise of Tijuana. Up here in this land of ferns and frogs to record Richard Kongrosian . . .
because you don’t happen to know that Kongrosian isn’t home.
He’s at Franklin Aimes Neuropsychiatric Hospital in San Francisco.”

“Christ,” Nat said, taken aback.

“Why not record me instead?” Goltz said. Amiably.

“Doing what?”

“Oh, I can shout or rant a few historic slogans for you. Half an hour’s worth or so . . . enough to fill up a
small
record. It may not sell well today or tomorrow, but one of these days—” Goltz winked at Nat.

“No thanks,” Nat said.

“Is your Ganymedean creature too pure for what I have to say?” The smile was empty of warmth, now; it was fixed starkly in place.

Nat said, “I’m a Jew, Mr. Goltz. So it’s hard for me to look on neo-Naziism with much enthusiasm.”

After a pause Goltz said, “I’m a Jew, too, Mr. Flieger. Or more properly, an Israeli. Look it up. It’s in the records. Any good newspaper or media news morgue can tell you that.”

Nat stared at him.

“Our enemy, yours and mine,” Goltz said, “is the der Alte system. They’re the real inheritors of the Nazi past. Think about that. They, and the cartels. A.G. Chemie, Karp und Sohnen Werke . . . didn’t you know that? Where have you been, Flieger? Haven’t you been listening?”

After an interval Nat said, “I’ve been listening. But I haven’t been very much convinced.”

“I’ll tell you something, then,” Goltz said. “Nicole and the people around her, our
Mutter,
is going to make use of von Lessinger’s time travel principle to make contact with the Third Reich, with Hermann Goering, as a matter of fact. They’ll be doing it soon. Does this surprise you?”

“I’ve—heard rumors.” Nat shrugged.

“You’re not a
Ge,
” Goltz said. “You’re like me, Flieger, me and my people. You’re forever on the outside. We’re not even supposed to hear rumors. There shouldn’t have been a leak. But we
Bes
are not going to take it—do you agree? Bringing Fat Hermann from the past into our time is just too much, wouldn’t you say?” He studied Nat’s face, waiting for his reaction.

Presently Nat said, “If it’s true—”

“It’s true, Flieger.” Goltz nodded.

“Then it puts your movement in a new light.”

“Come and see me,” Goltz said. “When the news is made public. When you know it’s true. Okay?”

Nat said nothing. He did not meet the man’s dark, intense gaze.

“So long, Flieger,” Goltz said. And, picking up his banner, which he had been resting against the auto-cab, he strode on down the street to rejoin his marching followers.

SEVEN

Seated together in the business office of The Abraham Lincoln, Don Tishman and Patrick Doyle studied the application which Mr. Ian Duncan of number 304 had just now filed with them. Ian Duncan desired to appear in the twice-weekly building talent show, and at a time when a White House talent scout was present.

The request, Tishman saw, was routine. Except that Ian Duncan proposed to perform his act in conjunction with another individual
who did not live at The Abraham Lincoln.

Pondering, Doyle said, “It’s an old buddy of his from the Military Service. He told me once; the two of them used to have this act years ago. Baroque music on two jugs. A novelty.”

“What apartment house does his partner live in?” Tishman inquired. Approval of the application would depend on how relations stood between The Abraham Lincoln and this other building.

“None. He sells jalopies for the Loony Luke—you know. Those cheap little vehicles that just barely manage to get you to Mars. He lives on the lot, I understand. The lots move around; it’s a nomadic existence. I’m sure you’ve heard.”

“Yes,” Tishman agreed, “and it’s totally out of the question. We can’t have that act on our stage, not with a man like that involved in it. There’s no reason why Ian can’t play his jug; I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a satisfactory act. But it’s against our tradition to have an outsider participate; our stage is for our own people exclusively, always has been and always will. So there’s no need even to discuss this.” He eyed the skypilot critically.

“True,” Doyle said, “but it’s legal for one of us to invite a relative to watch the talent shows . . . so why not an army buddy? Why
not
let him participate? This means a lot to Ian; I think you know he’s been failing, lately. He’s not a very intelligent person. Actually, he should be doing a manual job, I suppose. But if he has artistic ability, for instance this jug concept—”

Examining his documents, Tishman saw that the highest White House scout would be attending a show at The Abraham Lincoln, Miss Janet Raimer. The top acts at the building would of course be scheduled that night . . . so Duncan & Miller and their baroque jug band would have to compete successfully in order to obtain that privilege, and there were a number of acts which—Tishman thought—were probably superior. After all,
jugs
. . . and not even electronic jugs, at that.

“All right,” he decided aloud. “I agree.”

“You’re showing your humane side,” Doyle said, with an expression of sentimentality which disgusted Tishman. “And I think we’ll all enjoy the Bach and Vivaldi as played by Duncan & Miller on their inimitable jugs.”

Tishman, wincing, nodded.

It was old Joe Purd, the most ancient resident of the building, who informed Vince Strikerock that his wife—or more exactly his ex-wife—Julie was living upstairs on the top floor with Chic. Had been all this time.

My own brother, Vince said to himself, incredulous.

The time was late evening, almost eleven o’clock, close to curfew. Nevertheless, Vince headed at once for an elevator and a moment later was ascending to the top floor of The Abraham Lincoln.

I’ll kill him, he decided. Kill both of them, in fact.

And I’ll probably get off, he conjectured, before a jury selected at random from among the residents of the building, because after all I’m official identification reader; everybody knows me and respects me. I have their confidence. And what position does Chic hold, here? And also I work for a really huge cartel, Karp u. Sohnen, whereas Chic works for a flea-sized outfit on the verge of collapse. And everyone here knows that, too. Facts like that are important. You have to weigh them, take them into account. Whether you approve of it or not.

And in addition, the pure, unadulterated fact that Vince Strikerock was a
Ge
and Chic was not would alone positively insure his acquittal.

At the door of Chic’s apartment he paused, not knocking but merely standing there in the hall, uncertainly. This is awful, he said to himself. He was actually very fond of his older brother, who had helped raise him. Didn’t Chic really mean more to him than even Julie? No. Nothing and no one meant more to him than Julie.

Raising his hand he knocked.

The door opened. There stood Chic, in his blue dressing gown, a magazine in one hand. He looked a little older, more tired and bald and depressed, than usual.

“Now I realize why you haven’t dropped by and tried to cheer me up,” Vince said, “during these last couple of days. How could you, with Julie living up here?”

Chic said, “Come on in.” He held the door wide. Wearily, he led his brother into the small living room. “I suppose you’re going to give me a hard time,” he said over his shoulder. “As if I didn’t have enough already. My goddam firm’s about to close down—”

“Who cares,” Vince said, panting. “It’s what you deserve.” He looked around for Julie but did not see her or any sign of her belongings. Could old Joe Purd have been wrong? Impossible. Purd knew everything that went on in the building; gossip was his whole life. He was an authority.

“I heard something interesting on the news tonight,” Chic said as he seated himself on the couch facing his younger brother. “The government has decided to allow an exception in the application of the McPhearson Act. A psychoanalyst named Egon—”

“Listen,” Vince broke in. “Where is she?”

“I’ve got troubles enough without you jumping on me.” Chic eyed his younger brother. “I’ll flip you for her.”

Vince Strikerock choked with rage.

“A joke,” Chic murmured woodenly. “Sorry I said it; don’t know why I said it. She’s out somewhere buying clothes. She’s expensive to keep, isn’t she? You should have warned me. Put up a notice on the building’s bulletin board. But I’ll tell you seriously what I propose. I want you to get me into Karp und Sohnen Werke. Ever since Julie showed up here I’ve been thinking about this. Call it a deal.”

“No deal.”

“Then no Julie.”

Vince said, “What kind of job do you want with Karp?”

“Anything. Well, anything in public relations, sales or promotion; not in the engineering or manufacturing end. The same type of work I’ve been doing for Maury Frauenzimmer. Clean hands type of work.”

His voice shaking, Vince said, “I’ll get you in as assistant shipping clerk.”

Chic laughed sharply. “That’s a good one. And I’ll give you back Julie’s left foot.”

“Jesus.” Vince stared at him, unable to believe his ears. “You’re depraved or something.”

“Not at all. I’m in a very bad position, careerwise. All I have by which I can bargain is your ex-wife. What am I supposed to do? Sink obligingly into oblivion? The hell with that; I’m fighting to exist.” Chic seemed calm, fully rational.

“Do you love her?” Vince said.

Now, for the first time, his brother’s composure seemed to leave him. “What? Oh sure, I’m out of my mind with love for her—can’t you perceive that? How can you ask?” His tone was violently bitter. “That’s why I’m going to trade her back to you for a job at Karp. Listen, Vince, she’s a cold, hostile cookie— she’s out for herself and no one else. As far as I can ascertain she came up here merely to hurt you. Ponder that. I tell you what. We’ve got a bad problem here, you and I, with Julie; it’s ruining our lives. You agree? I think we should take it to an expert. Frankly it’s too much for me. I can’t solve it.”

“What expert?”

“Any expert. For instance the building marital guidance counselor. Or let’s take it to the last remaining psychoanalyst in the USEA, that Dr. Egon Superb they told about on the TV. Let’s go to him before they shut him down, too. What do you say? You know I’m right; you and I’ll never manage to thrash this out.” He added, “And come out alive, anyhow, the two of us.”

“You go.”

“Okay.” Chic nodded. “I’ll go. But you agree to abide by his decision. Okay?”

“Hell,” Vince said. “Then I’ll go along, too. You think I’m going to depend on your verbal report of what he says?”

The door of the apartment opened. Vince turned. There, in the doorway, stood Julie, with a package under her arm.

“Come back later,” Chic said to her. “Please.” He rose to his feet and walked toward her.

“We’re going to see a psychiatrist about you,” Vince said to Julie. “It’s settled.” To his older brother he said, “You and I’ll split the fees. I’m not going to get stuck with the whole tab.”

“Agreed,” Chic said, nodding. Awkwardly—or so it seemed to Vince—he kissed Julie on the cheek, patted her shoulder. To Vince he said, “And I still want that job at Karp und Sohnen Werke, no matter how this comes out, no matter which of us gets her. You understand?”

Vince said, “I’ll—see what I can do.” He spoke grudgingly, with massive resentment. It seemed to him too much to ask. But after all, Chic was his brother. There was such a thing as
family.

Picking up the telephone, Chic said, “I’ll call Dr. Superb right now.”

“At this time of night?” Julie said.

“Tomorrow, then. Early.” With reluctance Chic set the phone down again. “I’m anxious to get started; this whole business weighs on my mind, and I’ve got other problems that are more important.” He glanced at Julie. “No offense meant.”

Stiffly, Julie said, “I haven’t agreed to go to a psychiatrist or abide by anything he says. If I want to stay with you—”

“We’ll do what Superb says,” Chic informed her. “And if he says for you to go back downstairs and you don’t then I’ll get a court order to bar you from my apartment. I mean it.”

Vince had never heard his brother sound so hard; it surprised him. Probably it was due to Frauenzimmer Associates folding up. Chic’s job was his whole life, after all.

“A drink,” Chic said. And crossed to the liquor cabinet in the kitchen.

To her talent scout Janet Raimer, Nicole said, “Where did you manage to dig up
that?
” She gestured toward the folk singers twanging their electric guitars and nasally intoning away at the microphone in the center of the Camellia Room of the White House. “They’re really awful.” She felt thoroughly unhappy.

Businesslike and detached, Janet answered brightly, “From the conapt building Oak Farms in Cleveland, Ohio.”

“Well, send them back,” Nicole said, and signaled Maxwell Jamison who sat, bulky and inert, on the far side of the large room. Jamison at once clambered to his feet, stretched, and made his way to the folk singers and their microphone. They glanced at him. Apprehension showed on their faces and their droning song began to trail off.

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings,” Nicole said to them, “but I guess I’ve just had enough of ethnic music for this evening. Sorry.” She gave them one of her radiant smiles; wanly, they smiled back. They were finished. And they knew it.

Back to Oak Farm Conapts, Nicole said to herself. Where you belong.

A uniformed White House page approached her chair. “Mrs. Thibodeaux,” the page whispered, “Assistant State Secretary Garth McRae is now waiting in the Easter Lily Alcove for you. He says you’re expecting him.”

“Oh yes,” Nicole said. “Thank you. Give him some coffee or a drink and tell him I’ll be in shortly.”

The page departed.

“Janet,” Nicole said, “I want you to play back that tape you made of your phone conversation with Kongrosian. I want to see for myself just how sick he is; with hypochondriacs you can never be certain.”

“You understand there’s no vid portion,” Janet said. “Kongrosian had a towel—”

“Yes, I realize that.” Nicole felt irritable. “But I know him well enough to tell by his voice alone. He gets that reticent, introverted quality when he’s genuinely in distress. If he’s just feeling sorry for himself he becomes garrulous.” She stood up, and at once the guests stood, too, here and there in their places throughout the Camellia Room. There were not many of them tonight; the hour was late, almost midnight, and the current program of artistic talent was slender. This was distinctly not one of the better evenings.

“I’ll tell you what,” Janet Raimer said archly. “If I can’t do better than this, than the Moonrakers—” She gestured at the folk singers, who now were glumly packing up their instruments. “I’ll arrange a program entirely of the best of Ted Nitz’ commercials.” She smiled, showing her stainless steel teeth. Nicole winced. Janet, sometimes, was just too much the witty professional woman. Just too amusing and poised, and wholly identified with her powerful office; Janet could be sure of herself anytime and this bothered Nicole. There was no way to get at Janet Raimer. No wonder every aspect of life had become for Janet a kind of game.

On the raised dais, a new group had replaced the defunct folk singers. Nicole examined her program. This was the Las Vegas Modern String Quartet; they would, in a moment, be playing a Haydn work, despite their august title. Maybe I’ll go see Garth now, Nicole decided. Haydn seemed to her, with all the problems she had to cope with, a bit too nice. A bit too ornamental, not substantial enough.

When we get Goering here, she thought, we can bring in a brass band, street style, to play Bavarian military marches. I must remember to tell Janet that, she told herself. Or we could have some Wagner. Didn’t the Nazis dote on Wagner? Yes, she was sure of that. She had been studying history books about the period of the Third Reich; Dr. Goebbels, in his diaries, had mentioned the reverence felt by high Nazi officials at a performance of
The Ring.
Or perhaps it was
Meistersinger.
We could have the brass band play arrangements of themes from
Parsifal,
she decided with a secret spasm of amusement. In march tempo, of course. A sort of proctological version, just right for the Ubermenschen of the Third Reich.

Within twenty-four hours the von Lessinger technicians would have the conduits to 1944 completed. It was weird, but perhaps by tomorrow at this time Hermann Goering would be here in this era, plucked from his own time period by the most wily of the White House negotiators, skinny, small, elderly Major Tucker Behrans. Practically a der Alte himself, except that Army Major Behrans was live and genuine and breathing, not a mere simulacrum. At least not as far as she knew. Although sometimes it seemed that way, seemed to her that she existed in the center of a milieu comprised entirely of artificial creations of the cartel system, of A.G. Chemie conspiring with Karp u. Sohnen Werke in particular. Their commitment to
ersatz
reality . . . it was frankly too much for her. She had, over the years of contact with it, developed a sense of pure dread.