The Simulacra

4

EME's top recording technician watched in amazement as Nat Flieger carried the Ampek F-a2 to the ‘copter. ‘You're going to catch him on that?'

Jim Planck groaned. ‘My god, the F-a2 was obsolete last year!'

‘If you can't operate it -- ‘ Nat said.

‘I can,' Planck muttered. ‘I've run wormies before; I just feel that -- ‘ He gestured in dismay. ‘I suppose you're using an old-tune carbon type mike along with it.'

‘Hardly,' Nat said. Good-naturedly, he spalled Planck on the back; he had known him for years and was used to him.

‘Don't worry. We'll get along fine.'

‘Listen,' Planck said in a low voice, glancing around. ‘It is really a fact that Leo's daughter is coming with us on this trip?'

‘It's really a fact.'

‘That Molly Dondoldo always meant complications -- you know what I refer to? Naw, you don't. Nat, I don't have any idea what your relationship to Molly is these days, but -- ‘

‘You worry about recording Richard Kongrosian,' Nat said shortly.

‘Sure, sure.' Planck shrugged. ‘It's your life and job and your project, Nat; I'm just a wage-slave, doing what you tell me.' He ran a nervous, shaky hand through his thinning, slightly shiny black hair. ‘Are we ready to go?'

Molly had already got into the ‘copter; she sat reading a book, ignoring the two of them. She wore a brightly coloured cotton blouse and shorts and Nat thought to himself how inappropriate her dress would be for the rain-drenched forests into which they were going. Such a radically different climate; he wondered if Molly had ever been north before. The Oregon-Northern California region had lost much of its population during the fracas of 1980; it had been heavily hit by Red Chinese guided missiles, and of course the clouds of fallout had blanketed it in the subsequent decade. They had in fact not entirely dissipated yet.

But the level had been pronounced by NASA technicians as lying within the safe tolerance.

Lush growth, tangled variants created by the fallout ... the forestation had an almost tropical quality now, Nat knew. And the rain virtually never ceased; it had been frequent and heavy before 1990 and now it was torrential.

‘Ready,' he said to Jim Planck.

An unlit Alta Camina cigar jutting from between his teeth, Planck said, ‘Then away we go, us and your pet worm. To record the greatest handless piano player of the century. Hey, I got a joke, Nat. One day Richard Kongrosian is in a pub-trans accident; he's all battered up in the wreck, and when they take the bandages off he's grown hands.'

Planck chuckled. ‘And so he can never play again.'

Lowering her book, Molly said frigidly, ‘Be entertainment, is that what it's going to be on this flight?'

Planck coloured, bent to fumble with his recording gear, checking it automatically. ‘Sorry, Miss Dondoldo,' he said, but he did not sound sorry; he sounded chokingly resentful.

‘Just start up the ‘copter,' Molly said. And returned to reading her book. It was, Nat saw, a banned text by the twentieth-century sociologist C. Wright Mills. Molly Dondoldo, he reflected, no more a Ge than he or Jim Planck, had no anxiety over publicly reading an item forbidden to their class. A remarkable woman in many ways, he thought with admiration.

He said to her, ‘Don't be so harsh, Molly.'

Without glancing up, Molly said, ‘I hate Be wit.'

The ‘copter started; guiding it expertly, Jim Planck soon had them in the air. They moved north, over the coastal highway and the Imperial Valley with its criss-crossed endless miles of canals stretching as far as one could see.

‘It's going to be a cosy flight,' Nat said to Molly. ‘I can make that out already.'

Molly murmured, ‘Don't you have to sprinkle your worm or something? Frankly I'd prefer to be left alone if you don't mind.'

‘What do you know about the personal tragedy in Kongrosian's life?' Nat asked her.

She was silent a moment and then she said, ‘It has something to do with the fallout of the late ‘90s. I think it's his son. But no one knows for certain; I have no inside information, Nat. They say, though, that his son is a monster.'

Once more Nat felt the chill of fear which he had experienced at the idea of visiting Kongrosian's home.

‘Don't let it get you down,' Molly said. ‘After all, there've been so many special births since the fallout of the ‘90s. Don't you see them meandering about all the time? I do. Maybe, though, you prefer not to look.'

She shut her book, marking the place with a dogear. ‘It's the price we pay for our otherwise unblemished lives. My god, Nat, you can adjust to that thing, that Ampek recorder, and that positively gives me the creeps, all shimmering and alive like it is. Perhaps the child's deformation is due to factors derived from his father's Psionic faculty; maybe Kongrosian blames himself, not the fallout. Ask him when you get there.'

‘Ask him!' Nat echoed, appalled.

‘Certainly. Why not?'

‘It's a hell of an idea,' Nat said. And, as frequently in the past in his relations with Molly, it seemed to him that she was an exceptionally harsh and aggressive, almost masculine woman; there was a bluntness in her which did not much appeal to him. And on top of that Molly was far too intellectually oriented; she lacked her father's personal, emotional touch.

‘Why did you want to come on this trip?' he asked her. Certainly not to hear Kongrosian play; that was obvious. Perhaps it had to do with the son, the special child; Molly would be attracted to that. He felt revulsion, but he did not show it; he managed to smile back at her.

‘I enjoy Kongrosian,' Molly said placidly. ‘It would be very gratifying to meet him personally and listen to him play.'

Nat said, ‘But I've heard you say there's no market right now for Psionic versions of Brahms and Schumann.'

‘Aren't you able, Nat, to separate your personal life from company business? My own individual tastes run to Kongrosian's style, but that doesn't mean I think he'll sell. You know, Nat, we've done rather well with all sub-types of folk music for the last few years. I'd tend to say that performers like Kongrosian, however popular they may be at the White House, are anachronisms and we must be highly alert that we don't step backward into economic ruin with them.' She smiled at him, looking lazily for his reaction. ‘I'll tell you another reason I wanted to come. You and I can spend a good deal of time together, tormenting each other. Just you and me, on a trip ... we can stay at a motel in Jenner. Did you think of that?' Nat took a deep, unsteady breath.

Her smile increased. It was as if she were actually laughing at him, he thought. Molly could handle him, make him do what she wanted; they both knew that and it amused her. ‘Do you want to marry me?' Molly asked him. ‘Are your intentions honourable, in the old twentieth-century sense?'

Nat said, ‘Are yours?'

She shrugged. ‘Maybe I like monsters. I like you, Nat, you and your worm-like F-a2 recording machine that you nourish and pamper, like a wife or a pet or both.'

‘I'd do the same for you,' Nat said. All at once he felt Jim Planck watching him and he concentrated on watching the earth below them. It obviously embarrassed Jim, this exchange. Planck was an engineer, a man who worked with his body -- a mere Be as Molly had called him, but a good man. Talk of this sort was tough on Jim.

And, Nat thought, on me. The only one of us who really enjoys it is Molly. And she really does; it's not an affectation.

The autobahn fatigued Chic Strikerock, with its centrally-controlled cars and wheels spinning up invisible runnels in massed procession. In his own individual car he felt as if he were participating in a black-magic ritual -- as if he and the other commuters had put their lives into the hands of a force better left undiscussed. Actually it was a simple homeostatic beam which justified its position by making ceaseless references to all other vehicles and the guide-walls of the road itself, but he was not amused. He sat in his car reading the morning New York Times.

He kept his attention on the newspaper instead of the grinding, never-stopping environment which surrounded him, meditating on an article dealing with a further discovery of unicellular fossils on Ganymede.

Old-time civilization, Chic said to himself. The next layer down, just on the verge of being uncovered by the autoshovels operating in the airless, near-weightless void of midspace, of the big-planet moons.

We're being robbed, he decided. The next layer down will be comic books, contraceptives, empty Coke bottles. But they -- the authorities -- won't tell us. Who wants to find out that the entire solar system has been exposed to Coca Cola over a period of two million years? It was, for him, impossible to imagine a civilization -- of any kind of life form that had not contrived Coke. Otherwise, how could if authentically be called a ‘civilization'? But then he thought, I'm letting my bitterness get the better of me. Maury won't like it; better curb it before I arrive. Bad for business. And we must have business as usual. That's the watchword of the day -- if not of the century. After all, that's really ail that separates me from my younger brother: my ability to face fundamentals and not get lost in the maze of external rituals.

If Vince could do that then he'd be me.

And he'd perhaps have his wife back.

And Vince would have been in on Maury Frauenzimmer's scheme, put by Maury to Sepp von Lessinger in person at a conference of ersatz engineers in New York in 2023, to make use of von Lessinger's time travel experiments to send a psychiatrist back to 1925 to cure Fuhrer Hitler of his paranoia. As a matter of fact, von Lessinger had made some attempt in that direction, apparently, but the Ges kept the results to themselves -- of course. Leave it to the Ges to protect their privileged status, Chic thought to himself. And now von Lessinger was dead.

Something sizzled to the right of him. A commercial, made by Theodorus Nitz, the worst house of all, had attached itself to his car.

‘Get off,' he warned it. But the commercial, well-adhered, began to crawl, buffeted by the wind, towards the door and the entrance crack. It would soon have squeezed in and would be haranguing him in the cranky, garbagey fashion of the Nitz advertisements.

He could, as it came through the crack, kill it. It was alive, terribly mortal; the ad agencies, like nature, squandered hordes of them.

The commercial, fly-sized, began to buzz out its message as soon as it managed to force entry. ‘Say! Haven't you sometimes said to yourself, I'll bet other people in restaurants can see me! And you're puzzled as to what to do about this serious, baffling problem of being conspicuous, especially -- ‘

Chic crushed it with his foot.

The card told Nicole Thibodeaux that the Prime Minister of Israel had arrived at the White House and now waited in the Camellia Room. Emil Stark, slender, tall, always knowing the latest Jewish joke (‘One day God met Jesus and Jesus was wearing -- ‘ or however it went; she could not remember -- she was too sleepy). Anyhow, today she had a joke for him. The Wolff Commission had brought in its report.

Later, in a robe and slippers, she drank coffee, read the morning Times, then pushed the paper away and picked up the document which the Wolff Commission had presented her. Whom had they selected? Hermann Goering; she leafed through the pages and wished she could fire General Wolff.

The army brass had picked the man in the Age of Barbarism to deal with; she knew that, but the Washington authorities had agreed to follow General Wolff's recommendation, not realizing at the time what a typical military fathead he was.

It demonstrated the power of the army's GHQ within purely political areas, these days.

She called to Leonore, her secretary, ‘Tell Emil Stark to come on in.' No use delaying it; anyhow Stark probably would be pleased. Like so many others, the Israeli Prune Minister no doubt imagined that Goering had been a simple clown. Nicole laughed sharply. They hadn't digested the War Crimes Trial documents of World War Two, if they believed that.

‘Mrs Thibodeaux,' Stark said, appearing, smiling.

‘It's Goering,' Nicole said.

‘Of course.' Stark continued to smile.

‘You damn fool,' she said. ‘He's too smart for any of us -- don't you know that? If we try to do business with him -- ‘

‘But towards the end of the war Goering lost favour,' Stark said urbanely, seating himself at the table facing her. ‘He was involved in the losing military campaign, whereas the Gestapo people and those close to Hitler gained in power, Bormann and Himmler and Eichmann, the blackshirts. Goering would understand -- did understand -- what losing the military part of the Party's campaign meant.'

Nicole was silent. She felt irritable.

‘Does this bother you?' Stark said smoothly. ‘I know I find it difficult. But we have a simple enough proposition to put to the Reichsmarschall, don't we? It can be phrased in a single sentence, and he'll understand it.'

‘Oh yes,' she agreed. ‘Goering will understand. He'll also understand that if we're turned down we'll accept less, then even less that that, finally -- ‘ She broke off. ‘Yes, this does bother me. I think that von Lessinger was right in his final summation: no one should go near the Third Reich. When you deal with psychotics you're drawn in; you become mentally ill yourself.'

Stark said quietly, ‘There are six million Jewish lives to be saved, Mrs Thibodeaux.'

Sighing, Nicole said, ‘All right!' She eyed him with harsh anger, but the Israeli Premier met her gaze; he was not afraid of her. It was not customary for him to cringe before anyone; he had come a long way to this post, and success for him would not have been possible if he had been made any other way but this. His was not a position for a coward; Israel was -- had always been -- a small nation, existing among huge blocks that could, at any given moment, efface her. Stark even smiled back slightly; or did she imagine it? Her anger increased. She felt impotent.

‘We need not settle this matter right now,' Stark said, then. ‘I'm sure you have other matters on your mind, Mrs Thibodeaux. Planning the evening White House entertainment, perhaps. I received an invitation,' Stark tapped his coat pocket, ‘as I'm sure you're aware. We are promised a fine parade of talent, are we not? But that is always true.'

His voice was a murmur, gentle and soothing. ‘May I smoke?' From his pocket he brought a little flat gold case from which he removed a cigar. ‘I am trying these for the first time. Philippine cigars, made from Isabela leaf. Handmade, as a matter of fact.'

‘Go ahead,' Nicole said grumpily.

‘Does Herr Kalbfleisch smoke?' Stark inquired.

‘No,' Nicole said.

‘He does not enjoy your musical evenings either, does he? That is a bad sign. Recall Shakespeare, Julius Caesar. Something about "I distrust him for he hath no music." Recall? "He hath no music" Does this describe the present der Alte? I have never met him, unfortunately. In any case it is a pleasure to deal with you, Mrs Thibodeaux; believe me.' Emil Stark's eyes were grey, extremely bright.

‘Thanks,' Nicole groaned, wishing he would leave. She felt his domination of their colloquy and it made her weary and restless.

‘You know,' Stark continued, ‘it is very difficult for us for us Israelis -- to deal with Germans; I would no doubt have difficulty with Herr Kalbfleisch.' He puffed cigar smoke; the smell made her wrinkle her nose with distaste.

‘This one resembles the first der Alte, Herr Adenauer, or so I gather from history tapes shown me as a boy in school. It is interesting to realize that he ruled far longer than the entire period of the Third Reich ... which was intended to last a thousand years.'

‘Yes,' she said, dully.

‘And perhaps, if we assist it through von Lessinger's system, we will enable it to do so.' His eyes were oblique, now.

‘You think so? And yet you're still willing to -- ‘

‘I think,' Emil Stark said, ‘that if the Third Reich is given the weapons it needs it will survive its victory by perhaps five years -- and very possibly not even that long. It's doomed by its very nature; there's absolutely no mechanism in the Nazi Party by which a successor to der Fuhrer can be produced. Germany will fragment, become a collection of small, nasty, quarrelling states as it was before Bismark. My government is convinced of this, Mrs Thibodeaux. Remember Hess's introduction of Hitler at one of the great Party rallies. "Hitler ist Deutschland." "Hitler is Germany." He was correct. Hence after Hitler what? The deluge. And Hitler knew it. As a matter of fact, there is some possibility that Hitler deliberately led his people to defeat. But that is a rather convoluted psychoanalytic theory. I personally find it too baroque for credence.'

Nicole said thoughtfully, ‘If Hermann Goering is brought out of his period, here to us, do you want to confront him and participate in the discussions?'

‘Yes,' Stark said. ‘In fact I insist on it.'

‘You -- ‘ She stared at him.

‘Insist?'

Stark nodded.

‘I suppose,' Nicole said, ‘that's because you're the spiritual embodiment of World Jewry or of some such mystic entity as that.'

‘Because I am an official,' Stark answered, ‘of the State of Israel, its highest official, in fact.' He was silent then.

‘Is it true,' Nicole asked, ‘that your people are about to launch a probe to Mars?'

‘Not a probe,' Stark said. ‘A transport. We will set up our first kibbutz there, one of these days. Mars is, so to speak, one great Negev. We will have orange trees growing some day.'

‘Lucky little people,' Nicole said, under her breath.

‘Pardon?' Stark cupped his ear; he had not heard.

‘You're lucky. You have aspirations. What we have in the USEA is -- ‘ She reflected. ‘Norms. Standards. It's very mundane, and I don't mean that as a pun having to do with space travel. Damn you, Stark -- you rattle me. I don't know why.'

‘You should visit Israel,' Stark said. ‘It would interest you. For instance -- ‘

‘For instance I could become converted,' Nicole said. ‘Change my name to Rebecca. Listen, Stark; I've talked long enough with you. I don't enjoy this Wolff Report business -- I think it's too risky, this idea of tinkering with the past on a grand scale, even if it might mean saving six or eight or even ten million innocent human lives. Look what happened when we tried to send assassins back to kill Adolf Hitler in the early days of his career; something or someone baulked us every time, and we tried seven times! I know I'm convinced -- that it was agents from the future, from our time or past our time. If one can play with von Lessinger's system, two can. The bomb in the beerhall, the bomb in the prop plane -- ‘

‘But this attempt,' Stark said, ‘will delight neo-Nazi elements. You will have their co-operation.'

Nicole said bitterly, ‘And that's supposed to ease my worry? You, of all people, should see what a malign harbinger that is.'

For an interval Stark said nothing; he smoked his Philippine handmade cigar and regarded her sombrely. Then he shrugged. ‘I will bow out. I think, Mrs Thibodeaux, at this point. Perhaps you are right. I'd like to ponder this and also confer with other members on my staff. I'll see you at the musicale tonight, here at the White house then. Will there be any Bach or Handel? I enjoy both composers.'

‘We'll have an all-Israeli night, just for you,' Nicole said.

‘Mendelssohn, Mahler, Bloch, Copeland; all right?' She smiled, and Emil Stark smiled back.

‘Is there a copy of General Wolff's report which I can take?' Stark asked.

‘No.' She shook her head. ‘It's Geheimnis -- top secret.'

Stark raised an eyebrow. And ceased smiling.

‘Even Kalbfleisch is not going to see it,' Nicole said.

She did not intend to budge in her position, and Emil Stark could undoubtedly perceive that. After all, the man was professionally astute. Going to her desk she seated herself. Waiting for him to go, expecting him to, she sat examining a folio of abstracts which had been placed for her attention by her secretary, Leonore. They were boring -- or were they? She read the top abstract once more, carefully.

It informed her that White House talent scout Janet Raimer had been unable to sign the great morbidly-neurotic concert pianist Richard Kongrosian for tonight after all, because Kongrosian had suddenly left his summer home at Jenner and gone voluntarily into a sanatorium for electron-shock therapy. And no one was supposed to know.

Goddam, Nicole said to herself, bitterly. Well, that puts an end to this evening; I might as well go to bed right after dinner. For Kongrosian was not only the foremost interpreter of Brahms and Chopin but was in addition an eccentric flashing, colossal wit.

Emil Stark puffed on his cigar, regarding her with curiosity.

‘Does the name "Richard Kongrosian" mean anything to you?' she demanded, looking up.

‘Certainly. For certain Romantic composers -- ‘

‘He's sick again. Mentally. For the hundredth time. Or didn't you know about that? Hadn't you heard the rumours?' Furiously she spun the abstract away from her; it slipped to the floor. ‘Sometimes I wish he would finally kill himself or die from a perforated colon or whatever it is he's really got. This week.'

‘Kongrosian is a major artist.' Stark nodded. ‘I can appreciate your concern. And in these chaotic times, with such elements as the Sons of Job parading in the streets, and all the vulgarity and mediocrity which seems ready to rise up and reassert itself -- ‘

‘Those creatures,' Nicole said quietly, ‘will not last long. So worry about something else.'

‘You believe you understand the situation, then. And have it firmly under control.' Stark permitted himself a brief, cold grimace.

‘Bertold Goltz is as Be as it's possible to be. Out, un and Be; he's all three. He's a joke. A clown.'

‘Like Goering, perhaps?'

Nicole said nothing. But her eyes flickered; Stark saw that, the sudden, temporary doubt. He grimaced again, this time involuntarily. A grimace of concern. Nicole shuddered.