‘I don’t want to hear about it,’ Nicole said. ‘I just want you to do your job. As you must know, I never did approve of the McPhearson Act in the first place. So you can hardly expect me to object when it is not fully applied.’
‘The patient in question — ‘
‘Please,’ she said sharply.
Pembroke, his face impassive and set, shrugged in obedience.
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.’