The Simulacra by Philip K. Dick

‘I can’t do it,’ Ian said abruptly. ‘I can’t go on. It means too much to me. Something will go wrong; we won’t please her and they’ll boot us out. And we’ll never be able to forget.’

‘Look,’ Al began. ‘We have the papoola. And that gives us — ‘ He broke off. A tall, stoop-shouldered, elderly man in an expensive natural fibre-grey suit was coming up the sidewalk. ‘My god, it’s Luke himself,’ Al said. He looked frightened. ‘I’ve only seen him twice before in my life. Something must be wrong.’

‘Better reel in the papoola,’ Ian said. The papoola had begun to move towards Loony Luke.

With a bewildered expression on his face Al said, ‘I can’t.’

He fiddled desperately with the controls at his waist. ‘It won’t respond.’

The papoola reached Luke, and Luke bent down, picked it up and continued on towards the lot, the papoola under his arm.

‘He’s taken precedence over me,’ Al said. He looked at Ian numbly.

The door of the office opened and Loony Luke entered.

‘We got a report that you’ve been using this in your own time, for purposes of your own,’ he said to Al, his voice low and gravelly. ‘You were told not to do that; the papoola belongs to the lot, not to the operator.’

Al said, ‘Aw, come on, Luke — ‘

‘You ought to be fired,’ Luke said, ‘but you’re a good salesman so I’ll keep you on. Meanwhile, you’ll have to make your quota without help.’ Tightening his grip on the papoola, he started out. ‘My time is valuable; I have to go.’

He saw Al’s jug. ‘That’s not a musical instrument; it’s a thing to put whisky in.’

Al said, ‘Listen, Luke, this is publicity. Performing for Nicole means that the network of jalopy jungles will gain prestige. Got it?’

‘I don’t want prestige,’ Luke said, pausing at the door. ‘There’s no catering to Nicole Thibodeaux by me; let her run her society the way she wants and I’ll run the jungles the way I want. She leaves me alone and I’ll leave her alone and that’s fine with me. Don’t mess it up. Tell Slezak you can’t appear and forget about it; no grown man in his right senses would be hooting into an empty bottle anyhow.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Al said. ‘Art can be found in the most mundane daily walks of life, like in these jugs for instance.’

Luke, picking his teeth with a silver toothpick, said, ‘Now you don’t have a papoola to soften the First Family up for you. Better think about that. Do you really expect to make it without the papoola?’ He grinned.

After a pause Al said to Ian, ‘He’s right. The papoola did it for us. But — hell, let’s go on anyhow.’

‘You’ve got guts,’ Luke said. ‘But no sense. Still, I have to admire you. I can see why you’ve been a top-notch salesman for the organization; you don’t give up. Take the papoola the night you perform at the White House and then return it to me the next morning.’ He tossed the round, buglike creature to Al; grabbing it, Al hugged it against his chest like a big pillow. ‘Maybe it would be good publicity for the jungles,’ Luke said meditatively. ‘But I know this. Nicole doesn’t like us. Too many people have slipped out of her hands by means of us; we’re a leak in mama’s structure and mama knows it.’ Again he grinned, showing gold teeth.

Al said, ‘Thanks, Luke.’

‘But I’ll operate the papoola,’ Luke said. ‘By remote. I’m a little more skilled than you; after all, I built them.’

‘Sure,’ Al said. ‘I’ll have my hands full playing anyhow.’

‘Yes,’ Luke said, ‘you’ll need both hands for that bottle.’

Something in Luke’s tone made Ian Duncan uneasy.

What’s he up to? he wondered. But in any case he and his buddy Al Miller had no choice; they had to have the papoola working for them. And no doubt Luke could do a good job operating it; he had already proved his superiority over Al, just now, and as Luke said, Al would be busy blowing away on his jug. But still …

‘Loony Luke,’ Ian said, ‘have you ever met Nicole?’ It was a sudden thought on his part, an intuition.

‘Sure,’ Luke said steadily. ‘Years ago. I had some hand puppets; my dad and I travelled around putting on puppet shows. We finally played the White House.’

‘What happened there?’ Ian asked.

Luke, after a pause, said, ‘She — didn’t care for us. Said something about our puppets being indecent.’

And you hate her, Ian realized. You never forgave her.

‘Were they?’ he asked Luke.

‘No,’ Luke answered. ‘True, one act was a strip show; we had follies girl puppets. But nobody ever objected before. My dad took it hard but it didn’t bother me.’ His face was impassive.

Al said, ‘Was Nicole the First Lady that far back?’

‘Oh yes,’ Luke said. ‘She’s been in office for seventy-three years; didn’t you know that?’

‘It isn’t possible,’ both Al and Ian said, almost together.

‘Sure it is,’ Luke said. ‘She’s a really old woman, now. Must be. A grandmother. But she still looks good, I guess. You’ll know when you see her.’

Stunned, Ian said, ‘On TV — ‘

‘Oh yeah,’ Luke agreed. ‘On TV she looks around twenty. But go to the history books … except of course they’re banned to everyone except Ges. I mean the real history texts; not the ones they give you for studying for those relpol tests. Once you look it up you can figure it out for yourself. The facts are all there. Buried down somewhere.’

The facts, Ian realized, mean nothing when you can see with your own eyes she’s as young-looking as ever. And we see that every day.

Luke you’re lying, he thought. We know it; we all know it.

My buddy Al saw her; Al would have said, if she was really like that. You hate her; that’s your motive. Shaken, he turned his back to Luke; not wanting to have anything more to do with the man now. Seventy-three years in office — that would make Nicole almost ninety, now. He shuddered at the idea; he blocked it out of his thoughts. Or at least he tried to.

‘Good luck, boys,’ Luke said, chewing on his toothpick.

It’s too bad, Al Miller thought, that the government cracked down on those psychoanalysts. He glanced across his office at his buddy Ian Duncan. Because you’re in a bad way, Al realized. But actually there was one of them left; he had heard about it over TV. Dr Superb or something like that.

‘Ian,’ he said. ‘You need help. You’re not going to be able to blow that jug for Nicole, not the way you’re feeling.’

‘I’ll be okay,’ Ian said shortly.

Al said, ‘Ever been to a psychiatrist?’

‘Couple times. Long ago.’

‘You think they’re better than chemical therapy?’

‘Anything’s better than chemical therapy.’

If he’s the only psychoanalyst still practising in the entire USEA, Al thought, he’s no doubt swamped. Couldn’t possibly take on any new patients.

However, for the heck of it, he looked up the number, picked up his phone and dialled.

‘Who’re you calling?’ Ian asked suspiciously.

‘Dr Superb. The last of the — ‘

‘I know. Who’s it for? You? Me?’

‘Both of us maybe,’ Al said.

‘But primarily for me.’

Al did not answer. A girl’s image — she had lovely, enlarged, high-rise breasts — had formed on the screen and in his ear her voice said, ‘Dr Superb’s office.’

‘Is the doctor accepting any new patients at this time?’ Al asked, scrutinizing her image fixedly.

‘Yes he is,’ the girl said in a vigorous, firm tone of voice.

‘Terrific!’ Al said, pleased and surprised. ‘I and my partner would like to come in, whenever it’s possible; the sooner the better.’ He gave her his name and Ian’s.

‘What about Friday at nine-thirty in the morning?’ the girl asked.

‘It’s a deal,’ Al said. ‘Thanks a lot, miss. Ma’am.’ He hung up violently. ‘We got it!” he said to Ian. ‘Now we can thrash our worries out with someone qualified to render a professional assist. You know, talk about mother image — did you see that girl? Because — ‘

‘You can go,’ Ian said. ‘I’m not.’

Al said quietly, ‘If you don’t go, I’m not playing my jug at the White House. So you better go.’

Ian stared at him.

‘I mean it,’ Al said.

There was a long, awkward silence.

‘I’ll go,’ Ian said, at last. ‘But once only. No more after this Friday.’

‘That’s up to the doctor.’

‘Listen,’ Ian said. ‘If Nicole Thibodeaux is ninety years old no psychotherapy is going to help me.’

‘You’re that much involved emotionally with her? A woman you’ve never seen? That’s schizophrenic. Because the fact is you’re involved with — ‘ Al gestured. ‘An illusion. Something synthetic, unreal.’

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