The Simulacra by Philip K. Dick

‘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.

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