The Simulacra

12

Chic Strikerock leaned back against his seat and said expansively, ‘I just don't know, Vince. Maybe I can get you a job with Maury, maybe not.' He was thoroughly enjoying the situation.

They were on their way together, he and Vince, up the autobahn by car, heading towards Frauenzimmer Associates. Their centrally controlled but private vehicle spun along, expertly guided; they had nothing to worry about in that department and it left them free for more important considerations.

‘But you're hiring all sorts of people,' Vince pointed out.

‘I'm not the boss, though,' Chic said.

‘Do what you can,' Vince said. ‘Okay? I really would appreciate it. After all, Karp is going to be methodically ruined, now. That's obvious.' He had a peculiar, miserable, hangdog expression which Chic had never seen before. ‘Of course, anything you say is all right with me,' he murmured.

‘I don't want to put you to any trouble.'

Pondering the matter, Chic said, ‘I think also we should settle this business about Julie. This is as good a time as any.'

His brother's head jerked; Vince stared at him, his face twisting. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Call it a tie-in deal,' Chic said.

After a long pause Vince said wooden, ‘I see.'

‘But' -- Vince shuddered -- ‘I mean, you said yourself -- ‘

‘The most I've ever said is that she makes me nervous. But I feel a lot more psychologically secure, now. After all, I was about to be fired. That's all changed; I'm part of an expanding, growing company. And we both know it. I'm on the inside and that means a lot. Now I think I can handle Julie. In fact I ought to have a wife. It helps ensure status.'

‘You mean you intend to formally marry her?'

Chic nodded.

‘All right,' Vince said, at last. ‘Keep her. Frankly I don't give a damn about it. It's your business. Just as long as you get me on at Maury Frauenzimmer's place; that's all I care about.'

Strange, Chic thought. He had never known his brother to be that concerned with his career, to the exclusion of any other topic. He made a mental note of it; perhaps it meant something.

‘I can offer Frauenzimmer a lot,' Vince said. ‘For example, I happen to know the name of the new der Alte. I picked up some scuttlebutt at Karp's, before I left. You want to know it?'

Chic said, ‘What? The new what?'

‘The new der Alte. Or don't you understand what this contract is that your boss has got away from Karp?'

Shrugging, Chic said, ‘Sure. I know. I was just startled.'

His ears rang from shock. ‘Listen,' he managed to say, ‘I don't care if it's going to be called Adolf Hitler van Beethoven.' The der Alte; so it was a sim. He felt really good, knowing that. This world, Earth, was a fine place to live in, at long last, and he meant to make the most of it. Now that he was truly a Ge.

‘It's name is going to be Dieter Hogben,' Vince said.

‘I'm sure Maury knows what it'll be,' Chic said nonchalantly, but inside he was still nonplussed. Utterly.

Bending, his brother turned on the car radio. ‘There's some news about it already.'

‘I doubt if there would be so soon,' Chic said.

‘Quiet!' His brother turned up the volume. He had a news bulletin. So everyone, throughout the USEA, would be hearing it, now. Chic felt a little disappointed.

‘ ... a mild heart attack which doctors revealed occurred at approximately three A.M. and which has given rise to widely-held fears that Herr Kalbfleisch may not live to serve out his term of office. The condition of der Alte's heart and circulatory system is the subject of speculation, and this unexpected cardiac arrest comes at a time when -- ‘ The radio droned on. Vince and Chic exchanged glances and then suddenly both of them burst into laughter. Knowingly and intimately.

‘It won't be long,' Chic said. The old man was on his way out; the first of a series of public announcements had now been made. The process ran a regular course, easily predictable. First, the mild, initial heart attack, coming out of the blue, thought at first to be merely indigestion, this shocked everyone but at the same time it prepared them, got them used to the idea. The Bes had to be approached in this manner; it was a tradition, and it functioned smoothly, effectively. As it had each time before.

Everything's settled, Chic said to himself. The disposal of der Alte, who gets Julie, what firm my brother and I are working for ... there are no loose ends, troublesome and incomplete.

And yet. Suppose he had emigrated. Where would he be now? What would his life consist of? He and Richard Kongrosian ... colonists in a distant land. But there was no use thinking about that because he had turned that down; he had not emigrated and now the moment of choice had passed. He shoved the thought aside and turned back to the matter at hand.

‘You're going to find it a lot different, working for a small outfit,' he said to Vince, ‘instead of a cartel. The anonymity, the impersonal bureaucratic -- ‘

‘Be quiet!' Vince interrupted. ‘There's another bulletin.

Again he turned up the car radio.

‘ ... duties, because of his illness, have been assumed by the Vice President, and it is understood that a special election is to be announced shortly. Dr Rudi Kalbfleisch's condition meanwhile remains -- ‘

‘They're not going to give us much time,' Vince said, frowning nervously and chewing on his lower lip.

‘We can do it,' Chic said. He was not worried. Maury would find a way; his boss would come through, now that he'd been given the chance.

Failure, now that the big break had arrived, simply was not possible. For any of them.

God, suppose he started worrying about that!

Seated in the big blue easychair, the Reichsmarschall pondered Nicole's proposition. Nicole, sipped iced tea, silently waited, in her authentic Directorate chair at the far end of the Lotus Room of the White House.

‘What you're asking,' Goering said at last, ‘is nothing less than that we repudiate our oaths to Adolf Hitler. Is it that you don't comprehend the Fuhrer Prinzip, the Leader Principle? Possibly I can explain it to you. For example, imagine a ship in which -- ‘

‘I don't want a lecture,' Nicole snapped. ‘I want a decision. Or can't you decide? Have you lost that capacity?'

‘But if we do this,' Goering said, ‘we're no better than the July Bomb Plotters. In fact we would have to plant a bomb exactly as they did or will do, however one expresses it.' He rubbed his forehead wearily. ‘I find this singularly difficult. Why is there such urgency?'

‘Because I want it settled,' Nicole said.

Goering sighed. ‘You know, our greatest mistake in Nazi Germany was our failure to harness the abilities of women properly. We relegated them to the kitchen and bedroom. They were not really utilized in the war effort, in administration or production or within the apparatus of the Party. Observing you I can see what a dreadful mistake we made.'

‘If you have not decided within the next six hours,' Nicole said, ‘I will have the von Lessinger technicians return you to the Age of Barbarism and any deal which we might make -- ‘

She gestured a sharp cutting-motion that Goering watched with apprehension. ‘It's all over.'

‘I simply do not have the authority,' Goering began.

‘Listen,' she leaned towards him, ‘you better have. What did you think, what thoughts passed through your mind, when you saw your great bloated corpse lying in the jail cell at Nuremberg? You have a choice: that, or assuming the authority to negotiate with me.' She sat back, then, and sipped more iced tea.

Goering said hoarsely, ‘I -- will think further about it. During the next few hours. Thank you for the extension of time. Personally, I have nothing against the Jews. I'd be quite willing to -- ‘

‘Then do so.' Nicole rose to her feet. The Reichsmarschall sat slumped over broodingly, evidently unaware that she had risen. She walked from the room leaving him. What a dismal, contemptible individual, she thought. Emasculated by the power-arrangement of the Third Reich; unable to do anything on his own as a unique individual -- no wonder they lost the war. And to think that in World War One he was a gallant brave ace, a member of Richtofen's Flying Circus, flying one of those tiny, flimsy, wire and wood aeroplanes. Hard to believe it was the same man ...

Through a window of the White House she saw crowds outside the gates. The curious, here because of Rudi's ‘illness.' Nicole smiled momentarily. The watchers at the gate ... keeping the vigil. They would be there from now on, day and night, as if waiting for World Series seat tickets, until Kalbfleisch ‘died.' And then they would silently drift off. Heaven knew what they came for. Didn't they have anything else to do? She had wondered about them many times before, at the previous occasions. Were they always the same people? Interesting speculation.

She turned a corner -- and found herself facing Bertold Goltz.

‘I hurried here as soon as I heard,' Goltz said, lazily. ‘So the old man's strutted his little period and now is to be hustled off. He didn't last very long, this one. And Herr Hogben will replace him, a certain mythical, non-existent construct with that apt appellation. I was over at the Frauenzimmer Werke; they're going great guns, there.'

‘What do you want here?' Nicole demanded.

Goltz shrugged. ‘Conversation, perhaps. I eternally enjoy chatting with you. Actually, however, I have a distinct purpose: to warn you. Karp und Sohnen has an agent in the Frauenzimmer Werke already.'

‘I'm aware of that,' Nicole said. ‘And don't refer to the Frauenzimmer firm as a "Werke." They're too small to be a cartel.'

‘A cartel can be small in size. What matters is that they hold a monopoly; there's no competition -- Frauenzimmer has it all. Now Nicole, you had better listen to me; better have your von Lessinger technicians preview events vis-à-vis the Frauenzimmer people. For the next two months or so at the very least. I think you'll be surprised. Karp is not going to give up that easily; you should have thought of that.'

‘We keep the situation in -- ‘

‘No you don't,' Goltz said. ‘You have nothing under control. Look ahead and you'll see. You're becoming complacent, like a big fat cat.' He saw her touch the emergency button at her throat and he smiled broadly. ‘The alarm, Nicky? Because of me? Well, I guess I'll stroll on. By the way: congratulations on stopping Kongrosian before he could emigrate. That was a genuine coup on your part. However -- you don't know it yet, but your snaring of Kongrosian has dragged a little more than you anticipated into existence. Please make use of your von Lessinger equipment; it's so uniquely valuable in situations like this.'

Two grey-clad NP men appeared at the end of the corridor. Nicole signalled brusquely to them and they scrambled to get out their guns.

Yawning, Goltz vanished.

‘He's gone,' Nicole said to the NP men, accusingly. Of course Goltz was gone; she had expected it. But at least this had terminated the conversation; she was rid of his presence.

We ought to go back, Nicole thought, to Goltz's babyhood and destroy him then. But Goltz had anticipated them. He was long since back there, at the time of his birth and onward into childhood. Guarding himself, training himself, crooning over his child-self; through the von Lessinger principle Bertold Goltz had become, in effect, his own parent He was his own constant companion, his own Aristotle, for the initial fifteen years of his life, and for that reason the younger Goltz could not be surprised.

Surprise. That was the element which von Lessinger had nearly banished from politics. Everything now was pure cause and effect. At least, so she hoped.

‘Mrs Thibodeaux,' one of the NP men said, very respectfully, ‘there is a man from A.G. Chemie to see you. A Mr Merrill Judd. We brought him up.'

‘Oh yes,' Nicole said, nodding. She had an appointment with him; Judd had some fresh ideas as to how to go about curing Richard Kongrosian. The psych-chemist had approached the White House as soon as he had learned that Kongrosian had been found. ‘Thank you,' she said, and started towards the California Poppy Room where she was to meet with Judd.

Damn those Karps, Anton and Felix, she thought as she hurried along the carpeted corridor, the two NP men following behind her. Suppose they attempt to sabotage the Dieter Hogben Project -- perhaps Goltz is right: perhaps we've got to act against them!

But they were so strong. And so resourceful. The Karps, father and son, were old pros at this business, even more so than she herself.

I wonder what Goltz meant exactly, she thought. About our having dragged more than we anticipated into existence when we regained possession of Richard Kongrosian. Something to do with Loony Luke? There was another one, as bad as the Karps or Goltz; another pirate and nihilist, out for himself at the expense of the state. How complicated everything had become, and still there was the unfinished, nagging business deal with Goering hanging over everything else. The Reichsmarschall simply could not decide and would not, would never finalize, and his indecision was stopping the wheels, keeping her attention fixed there, and at far too great a cost. If Goering did not decide by tonight. He would be, as she had assured him, back in his own time by eight this evening. Involved in a losing war which would eventually -- and he would be acutely aware of it cost him his fat life.

I'll see that Goering gets exactly what's due him, she said savagely to herself. And Goltz and the Karps, too. All of them, including Loony Luke. But it must be done carefully, with each matter handled in sequence. Right now she had a more pressing problem, that of Kongrosian.

Swiftly, she entered the California Poppy Room and greeted the A.G. Chemie psych-chemist, Merrill Judd.

In his sleep Ian Duncan had a terrible dream. A hideous old woman with greenish, wrinkled claws scrabbled at him, whining for him to do something -- he did not understand what it was because her voice, her words, blurred into indistinction, swallowed by her broken-toothed mouth, lost in the twisting thread of saliva which found its way to her chin. He struggled to free himself, to wake from his nap, to escape from her ...

‘Chrissake,' Al's peevish voice filtered through the layers of semi-consciousness to him. ‘Wake up! We have to get the lot moving; we're supposed to be at the White House in less than three hours.'

Nicole, Ian realized as he sat up groggily. It was her I was dreaming about; ancient and withered, with dry, shrunken, deathly-stale paps, but still her. ‘Okay,' he muttered as he rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘I sure as hell didn't mean to doze off. And I sure paid for it; I had a terrible dream about Nicole Al. Listen suppose she really is old, despite what we saw? Suppose it's a trick, a projected illusion. I mean -- ‘

‘We'll perform,' Al said. ‘Play our jugs.'

‘But I couldn't live through it,' Ian Duncan said. ‘My ability to adjust is just too precarious. This is turning into a nightmare; Luke controls the papoola and maybe Nicola is old -- what's the point of going on? Can't we go back to just seeing her on the TV screen? That's good enough for me. I want that, the image. Okay?'

‘No,' Al said doggedly. ‘We have to see this through. Remember, you can always emigrate to Mars; we have the means right at hand.'

The lot had already risen, was already moving towards the East Coast and Washington, D.C.

When they landed, Harold Slezak, a rotund, genial little man, greeted them warmly; he shook hands with them, putting them at their ease as they walked towards the service entrance of the White House. ‘Your programme is ambitious,' he burbled, ‘but you can fulfil it, fine with me, with us here, the First Family I mean, and in particular the First Lady herself who is actively enthusiastic about all forms of original artistry. According to your biographical data you two made a thorough study of primitive disc recordings from the early nineteen hundreds, as early as 1920, of jug bands surviving from the US Civil War, so you're authentic juggists except of course, you're classical, not folk.'

‘Yes sir,' Al said.

‘Could you, however, slip in one folk work?' Slezak asked as they passed the NP guards at the service entrance and entered the White House, the long, quiet corridor with its artificial candles set at intervals. ‘For instance, we suggest "Rockaby My Sara Jane." Do you have that in your repertoire? If not?'

‘We have it,' Al said shortly. A look of repugnance appeared on his face and then immediately was gone.

‘Fine,' Slezak said, prodding the two of them amiably ahead of him. Now may I ask what this creature you carry is?' He eyed the papoola with something less than active enthusiasm. ‘Is it alive?'

‘It's our totem animal,' Al said.

‘You mean a superstitious charm? A mascot?'

‘Exactly,' Al said. ‘With it we assuage anxiety.' He patted the papoola's head. ‘And it's part of our act; it dances while we play. You know, like a monkey.'

‘Well, I'll be darned,' Slezak said, his enthusiasm returning. ‘I see, now. Nicole will be delighted; she loves soft furry things.' He held a door open ahead of them.

And there she sat.

How could Luke have been so wrong? Ian Duncan thought. She was even lovelier than their glimpse of her at the lot, and in comparison with her TV image she was much more distinct. That was the cardinal difference, the fabulous authenticity of her appearance, its reality to the senses. The senses knew difference. Here she sat, in faded blue-cotton trousers, moccasins on her small feet, a carelessly-buttoned white shirt through which he could see -- or imagined he could see -- her tanned, smooth skin. How informal she was. Ian thought. Lacking in pretense or vain-glory. Her hair cut short, exposing her beautifully-formed neck and ears -- which fascinated him, captured his whole attention.

And, he thought, so darn young. She did not look even twenty. He wondered if by some miracle she remembered him. Or Al.

‘Nicole,' Slezak said, ‘these are the classical juggists.'

She glanced up, sideways; she had been reading The Times.

Now she smiled in greeting. ‘Good afternoon,' she said. ‘Did you two have lunch? We could serve you some Canadian bacon and butterhorns and coffee as a snack, if you want.' Her voice, oddly, did not seem to come from her; it materialized from the upper portion of the room, almost at the ceiling. Looking that way, Ian saw a series of speakers and he realized with a start that a glass or plastic barrier separated Nicole from them, a security measure to protect her. He felt disappointed and yet he understood why it was necessary. If anything happened to her'We ate, Mrs Thibodeaux,' Al said. ‘Thanks.' He, too, was glancing up at the speakers.

We ate Mrs Thibodeaux, Ian Duncan thought crazily.

Isn't it actually the other way around? Doesn't she, sitting here in her blue-cotton pants and shirt, doesn't she devour us? Strange thought ...

‘Look,' Nicole said to Harold Slezak. ‘They have one of those little papoolas with them -- won't that be fun?' To Al she said, ‘Could I see it? Let it come here.' She made a signal, and the transparent wall began to lift.

Al dropped the papoola and it scuttled towards Nicole, beneath the raised security barrier; it hopped up, and all at once Nicole held it in her strong, competent hands, gazing down at it intently as if peering deep inside it.

‘Heck,' she said, ‘it's not alive; it's just a toy.'

‘None survived,' Al explained. ‘As far as we know. But this is an authentic model, based on fossil remains found on Mars.' He stepped towards her. The barrier settled abruptly in place. Al was cut off from the papoola and he stood gaping foolishly, seemingly very upset. Then, as if by instinct, he touched the controls at his waist. The papoola slid from Nicole's hands and hopped clumsily to the floor. Nicole exclaimed in amazement, her eyes bright.

‘Do you want one, Nicky?' Harold Slezak asked her. ‘We can undoubtedly get you one, even several.'

‘What does it do?' Nicole said.

Slezak bubbled, ‘It dances, ma'am, when they play it has rhythm in its bones -- correct, Mr Duncan? Maybe you could play something now, a shorter piece, to show Mrs Thibodeaux.' He rubbed his ample hands together vigorously, nodding to Ian and Al.

‘S-sure,' Al said. He and Ian looked at each other. ‘Uh, we could play that little Schubert thing, that arrangement of "The Trout." Okay, Ian, get set.' He unbuttoned the protective case from his jug, lifted it out and held it awkwardly. Ian did the same. "This is Al Miller, here at first jug,' Al said.

‘And beside me is my partner, Ian Duncan, at second jug. Bringing you a concert of classical favourites, beginning with a little Schubert.'

Bump bump-bump BUMP-BUMP buump bump, babump-bump bup-bup-bup-bup-buppppp ...

Nicole said suddenly, ‘Now I remember where I saw you two before. Especially you, Mr Miller.'

Lowering their jugs they waited apprehensively.

‘At that jalopy jungle,' Nicole said. ‘When I went to pick up Richard. You talked to me; you asked me to leave Richard alone.'

‘Yes,' Al admitted.

‘Didn't you suppose I'd remember you?' Nicole asked. ‘For heaven's sake?'

Al said, ‘You see so many people -- ‘

‘But I have a good memory,' Nicole said. ‘Even for those who aren't too dreadfully important. You should have waited a little longer before coming here ... or perhaps you don't care.'

‘We care,' Al said. ‘We care a lot.'

She studied him for a long time. ‘Musicians are funny people,' she said aloud, at last. ‘They don't think like other people, I've discovered. They live in their own private fantasy world, like Richard does. He's the worst. But he's also the best, the finest of the White House musicians. Perhaps it has to go together; I don't know, I don't have any theory about it. Someone should do a definitive scientific study on the subject and settle it once and for all. Well, go ahead with your number.'

‘Okay,' Al said, glancing quickly at Ian.

‘You never told me you said that to her,' Ian said. ‘Asking her to leave Kongrosian alone -- you never mentioned that.'

‘I thought you knew; I thought you were there and heard it.' Al shrugged. ‘Anyhow, I didn't really believe she'd remember me.' Obviously it still seemed impossible to him; his face was a maze of disbelief.

They began to play once again.

Bump-bump-bump BUMP-BUMP buuump bump ...

Nicole giggled.

We've failed, Ian thought. God, the worst had come about; we're ludicrous. He ceased playing; Al continued on, his cheeks red and swelling with the effort of playing. He seemed unaware that Nicole was holding her hand up to conceal her laughter, her amusement at them and their efforts. Al played on, by himself, to the end of the piece, and then he, too, lowered his jug.

‘The papoola,' Nicole said, as evenly as possible. ‘It didn't dance. Not one little step -- why not?' And again she laughed, unable to stop herself.

Al said woodenly, ‘I -- don't have control of it; it's on remote right now.' To Ian he said, ‘Luke's got control of it, still.' He turned to the papoola and said in a loud voice, ‘You better dance.'

‘Oh really, this is wonderful,' Nicole said. ‘Look,' she said, to a woman who had just joined her; it was Janet Raimer -- Ian recognized her. ‘He has to beg it to dance. Dance, whatever your name is, papoola-thing from Mars, or rather imitation papoola-thing from Mars.' she prodded the papoola with the toe of her moccasin, trying to nudge it into life. ‘Come on, little synthetic ancient cute creature, all made out of wires. Please.' She prodded it a little harder.

The papoola leaped at her. It bit her.

Nicole screamed. A sharp pop sounded from behind her, and the papoola vanished into particles that swirled. A White House NP man stepped into sight, his rifle in his hands, peering at her and at the floating particles; his face was calm but his hands and the rifle quivered. Al began to curse to himself, chanting the words sing-song over and over again, the same three or four, unceasingly.

‘Luke,' he said, then, to Ian. ‘He did it. Revenge. It's the end of us.' He looked tunelessly old, haggard, worn out.

Reflectively he began wrapping his jug up once more, going through the motions in mechanical fashion, step by step.

‘You're under arrest,' a second White House NP guard said, appearing behind them and training his rule on the two of them.

‘Sure,' Al said listlessly, his head nodding, wobbling vacuously. ‘We had nothing to do with it so arrest us.'

Getting to her feet with the assistance of Janet Raimer, Nicole walked slowly towards Al and Ian. At the transparent barrier she stopped. ‘Did it bite me because I laughed?' she said in a quiet voice.

Slezak stood mopping his forehead. He said nothing; he merely stared at them all sightlessly.

‘I'm sorry,' Nicole said. ‘I made it angry, didn't I? It's a shame; we would have enjoyed your act. This evening after dinner.'

‘Luke did it,' Al said to her.

‘ "Luke." ‘ Nicole studied him. ‘Yes, that's right; he's your employer.' To Janet Raimer she said, ‘I guess we'd better have him arrested, too. Don't you think?'

‘Anything you say,' Janet Raimer said, pale and terribly frightened-looking.

Nicole said, ‘This whole jug business ... it was just a cover-up for an action directly hostile to us, wasn't it? A crime against the state. We'll have to rethink the entire philosophy of inviting performers here -- perhaps it's been a mistake from the very start. It gives too much access to anyone who has hostile intentions towards us. I'm sorry.'

She looked sad, now; she folded her arms and stood rocking back and forth, lost in thought.

‘Believe me, Nicole -- ‘ Al began.

Introspectively, to herself, she said, ‘I'm not Nicole. Don't call me that. Nicole Thibodeaux died years ago. I'm Kate Rupert, the fourth one to take her place. I'm just an actress who looks enough like the original Nicole to be able to keep this job, and sometimes, when something like this happens I wish that I didn't have it. I have no real authority, in the ultimate sense. There's a council that governs ... I never see them; they're not interested in me and I'm not in them. So that makes it even.'

After a time Al said, ‘How -- many attempts have there been on your life?'

‘Six or seven,' she said. ‘I forget exactly. All for psychological reasons. Unresolved Oedipal complexes or something bizarre like that. I don't really care.' She turned to the NP men, then; there were now several squads of them on hand. Pointing to Al and Ian she said, ‘It seems to me they don't appear as if they know what's going on. Maybe they are innocent.' To Harold Slezak and Janet Raimer she said, ‘Do they have to be destroyed? I don't see why you couldn't just eradicate a portion of the memory-cells of their brains and then let them go. Why wouldn't that do?'

Slezak glanced at Janet Raimer, then shrugged. ‘If you want it that way.'

‘Yes,' Nicole said. ‘I'd prefer that. It would make my job easier. Take them to the Medical Centre at Bethesda and after that release them. And now let's go on; let's give an audience to the next performers.'

A NP man nudged Ian in the back with his gun. ‘Down the corridor, please.'

‘Okay,' Ian managed to murmur, gripping his jug. But what happened? he wondered. I don't quite understand.

This woman isn't really Nicole and even worse there is no Nicole anywhere; there's just the TV image after all, the illusion of the media, and behind it, behind her, another group entirely rules. A corporate body of some kind. But who are they and how did they get power? How long have they had it? Will we ever know? We came so far; we almost seemed to know what's really going on. The actuality behind the illusion, the secrets kept from us all our lives. Can't they tell us the rest? There can't be much more. And what difference would it make now? ‘Goodbye,' Al was saying to him.

‘W-what?' he said, horrified. ‘Why do you say that? They're going to let us go, aren't they?'

Al said, ‘We won't remember each other. Take my word for it; we won't be allowed to keep any recollections like that. So -- ‘ He held out his hand. ‘So goodbye, Ian. We made it to the White House, didn't we? You won't remember that either, but that's still true; we did do it.' He grinned crookedly.

‘Move along,' the NP man said to the two of them.

Still -- pointlessly -- holding their jugs, Al Miller and Ian Duncan moved step by step down the corridor, in the direction of the outer door and the waiting black medical van which they knew lay beyond.

It was night, and Ian Duncan found himself at a deserted street corner, cold and shivering, blinking in the glaring white light of an urban pubtrans loading platform. What am I doing here? he asked himself, bewildered. He looked at his wristwatch; it was eight o'clock. I'm supposed to be at the All Souls Meeting, aren't I? he thought dazedly.

I can't miss another one, he realized. Two in a row -- it's a terrible fine; it's economically ruinous. He began to walk.

The familiar building, The Abraham Lincoln with all its network of towers and windows, lay extended ahead, it was not far and he hurried, breathing deeply, trying to keep a good steady pace. It must be over, he thought. The lights in the great central auditorium were not lit. Damn it, he breathed in despair.

‘All Souls over?' he said to the doorman as he entered the lobby, his identification held out to the official reader.

‘You're a little confused, Mr Duncan,' Vince Strikerock said. ‘All Souls was last night; this is Friday.'

Something's gone wrong, Ian realized. But he said nothing; he merely nodded and hurried on towards the elevator.

As he emerged from the elevator on his own floor, a door opened and a furtive figure beckoned him. ‘Hey, Duncan!'

It was a building resident named Corley, who he barely knew. Because an encounter like this could be disastrous, Ian approached him with wariness. ‘What is it?'

‘A rumour,' Corley said in a rapid, fear-filled voice.

‘About your last relpol test -- some irregularity. They're going to rouse you at five or six A.M. tomorrow and spring a surprise relpol quiz on you.' He glanced up and down the hall. ‘Study the late 1980's and the religio-collectivist movements in particular. Got it?'

‘Sure,' Ian said, with gratitude. ‘And thanks a lot. Maybe I can do the same -- ‘ He broke off, because Corley had scuttled back into his own apartment again and shut the door. Ian was alone.

Certainly very nice of him, he thought as he walked on.

Probably saved my hide, kept me from being forcibly evicted right out of here, forever.

When he reached his apartment he made himself comfortable, with all his reference books on the political history of the United States spread out around him. I'll study all night, he decided. Because I have to pass that quiz; I have no choice.

To keep himself awake, he turned on the TV. Presently the warm, familiar being, the presence of the First Lady, flowed into existence and began to permeate the room.

‘ ... and at our musical tonight,' she was saying, ‘we will have a saxophone quartet which will play themes from Wagner's operas, in particular my favourite, die Meistersinger. I believe we will all find that a deeply rewarding and certainly an enriching experience to cherish. And, after that, I have arranged to bring you once again an old favourite of yours, the world-renowned cellist, Henri LeClerc, in a programme of Jerome Kern and Cole Porter.' She smiled, and at his pile of reference books, Ian Duncan smiled back.

I wonder how it would be to play at the White House, he said to himself. To perform before the First Lady. Too bad I never learned to play any kind of musical instrument. I can't act, write poems, dance or sing -- nothing. So what hope is there for me? Now, if I had come from a musical family, if I had had a father or a mother to teach me ...

Glumly, he scratched a few notes on the rise of the French Christian-Fascist Party of 1975. And then, drawn as always to the TV set, he put his pen down and turned his chair so that he faced the set. Nicole was now exhibiting a piece of Delft tile which she had picked up, she explained, in a little shop in Schweinfurt, Germany. What lovely clear colours it had ... he watched, fascinated,' as her strong, slim fingers caressed the shiny surface of the baked enamel tile.

‘See the tile,' Nicole was murmuring in her husky voice. ‘Don't you wish you had a tile like that? Isn't it lovely?'

‘Yes,' Ian Duncan said.

‘How many of you would like someday to see such a tile?'

Nicole asked. ‘Raise your hands.'

Ian raised his hand hopefully.

‘Oh, a whole lot of you,' Nicole said, smiling her intimate radiant smile. ‘Well, perhaps later we will have another tour of the White House. Would you like that?'

Hopping up and down in his chair, Ian said, ‘Yes, I'd like that!'

On the TV screen she was smiling directly at him, it seemed. And so he smiled back. And then, reluctantly, feeling a great weight descend over him, he at last turned back to his reference books. Back to the harsh realities of his daily endless life.

Against the window of his apartment something bumped and a voice called to him thinly, ‘Ian Duncan, I don't have much time!'

Whirling, he saw outside in the night darkness a shape drifting, an egg-like construction that hovered. Within it a man waved at him energetically, still calling. The egg gave off a dull putt-putt noise, its jets idling as the man kicked open the hatch of the vehicle and lifted himself out.

Are they after me already on this quiz? Ian Duncan asked himself. He stood up, feeling helpless. So soon ... I'm not ready, yet.

Angrily, the man in the vehicle spun the jets until their steady white exhaust-firing met the surface of the building; the room shuddered and bits of plaster broke away. The window itself collapsed as the heat of the jets crossed it.

Through the gap exposed the man yelled once more, trying to attract Ian Duncan's dulled faculties.

‘Hey, Duncan! Hurry up! I have your buddy already; he's on his way in another ship!' The man, elderly, wearing an expensive natural fibre blue pinstripe suit which was slightly old-fashioned, lowered himself with dexterity from the hovering egg-shaped vehicle and dropped feet-first into the room. ‘We have to get going if we're to make it. You don't remember me? Neither did Al.'

Ian Duncan stared at him, wondering who he was and who Al was.

‘Mama's psychologists did a good job of working you over,' the elderly man panted. ‘That Bethesda -- it must be quite a place.' He came towards Ian, caught hold of him by the shoulder. ‘The NP's are shutting down all the jalopy jungles; I have to beat it to Mars and I'm taking you along with me. Try to pull yourself together; I'm Loony Luke you don't remember me now but you will after we're all on Mars and you see your buddy Al again. Come on!'

Luke propelled him towards the gap in the wall of the room, the opening which had once been a window, and towards the vehicle -- it was called a jalopy, Ian realized -- drifting beyond.

‘Okay,' Ian said, wondering what he should take with him. What would he need on Mars? Toothbrush, pyjamas, a heavy coat? He looked frantically around his apartment, one last inspection of it.

Far off, police sirens sounded.

Luke scrambled back into the jalopy, and Ian followed, taking hold of the elderly man's extended hand. The floor of the jalopy, he discovered to his surprise crawled with bright orange bug-like creatures whose antennae waved at him as he sprawled among them. Papoolas, he remembered. Or something like that.

You'll be all right now, the papoolas were thinking in unison.

Don't worry; Loony Luke got you away in time, just barely in time. Relax.

‘Yes,' Ian agreed. He lay back against the side of the jalopy and relaxed, as the ship shot upwards into the night emptiness and the new planet which lay ahead.