The Simulacra

7

Seated together in the business office of The Abraham Lincoln, Don Tishman and Patrick Doyle studied the application which Mr Ian Duncan of number 304 had just now filed with them. Ian Duncan desired to appear in the twiceweekly building talent show, and at a time when a White House talent scout was present.

The request, Tishman saw, was routine. Except that Ian Duncan proposed to perform his act in conjunction with another individual who did not live at The Abraham Lincoln.

Pondering, Doyle said, ‘It's an old buddy of his from the Military Service. He told me once; the two of them used to have this act years ago. Baroque music on two jugs. A novelty.'

‘What apartment house does his partner live in?' Tishman inquired. Approval of the application would depend on how relations stood between The Abraham Lincoln and the other building.

‘None. He sells jalopies for that -- Loony Luke -- you know. Those cheap little vehicles that just barely manage to get you to Mars. He lives on the lot, I understand. The lots move around; it's a nomadic existence. I'm sure you've heard.'

‘Yes,' Tishman agreed, ‘and it's totally out of the question. We can't have that act on our stage, not with a man like that involved in it. There's no reason why Ian can't play his jug; I wouldn't be surprised if it's a satisfactory act. But it's against our tradition to have an outsider participate; our stage is for our own people exclusively, always has been, and always will. So there's no need even to discuss this.' He eyed the skypilot critically.

‘True,' Doyle said, ‘but it's legal for one of us to invite a relative to watch the talent shows ... so why not an army buddy? Why not let him participate? This means a lot to Ian: I think you know he's been failing lately. He's not a very intelligent person. Actually, he should be doing a manual job, I suppose. But if he has artistic ability, for instance this job concept -- ‘

Examining his documents, Tishman saw that the highest White House scout would be attending a show at The Abraham Lincoln, Miss Janet Raimer. The top acts at the building would of course be scheduled that night ... so Duncan & Miller and their baroque jug band would have to compete successfully in order to obtain that privilege, and there were a number of acts which -- Tishman thought were probably superior. After all, jugs ... and not even electronic jugs, at that.

‘All right,' he decided aloud. ‘I agree.'

‘You're showing your human side,' Doyle said, with an expression of sentimentality which disgusted Tishman. ‘And I think we'll all enjoy the Bach and Vivaldi as played by Duncan & Miller on their inimitable jugs.'

Tishman, wincing, nodded.

It was old Joe Purd, the most ancient resident of the building, who informed Vince Strikerock that his wife -- or more exactly his ex-wife -- Julie was living upstairs on the top floor with Chic. Had been all this time.

My own brother, Vince said to himself, incredulous.

The time was late evening, almost eleven o'clock, close to curfew. Never the less, Vince headed at once for an elevator and a moment later was ascending to the top floor of The Abraham Lincoln.

I'll kill him, he decided. Kill both of them, in fact.

And I'll probably get off, he conjectured, before a jury selected at random from among the residents of the building, because after all I'm official identification reader; everybody knows me and respects me. I have their confidence.

And what position does Chic hold, here? And also I work for a really huge cartel, Karp u. Sohnen, whereas Chic works for a flea-sized outfit on the verge of collapse. And everyone here knows that, too. Facts like that are important. You have to weigh them, take them into account. Whether you approve of it or not.

And in addition, the pure unadulterated fact that Vince Strikerock was a Ge and Chic was not would alone positively ensure his acquittal.

At the door of Chic's apartment he paused, not knocking but merely standing there in the hall, uncertainly. This is awful, he said to himself. He was actually very fond of his older brother, who had helped raise him. Didn't Chic really mean more to him than even Julie? No. Nothing and no one meant more to him than Julie.

Raising his hand he knocked.

The door opened. There stood Chic, in his blue dressing gown, a magazine in one hand. He looked a little older, more tired and bald and depressed, than usual.

‘Now I realize why you haven't dropped by and tried to cheer me up,' Vince said, ‘during these last couple of days. How could you, with Julie living up here?'

Chic said, ‘Come on in.' He held the door wide. Wearily, he led his brother into the small living room. ‘I suppose you're going to give me a hard time,' he said over his shoulder. ‘As if I didn't have enough already. My goddam firm's about to close down -- ‘

‘Who cares,' Vince said, panting. ‘It's what you deserve.'

He looked around for Julie but did not see her or any sign of her belongings. Could old Joe Purd have been wrong? Impossible. Purd knew everything that went on in the building; gossip was his whole life. He was an authority.

‘I heard something interesting on the news tonight,' Chic said as he seated himself on the couch facing his younger brother. ‘The government has decided to allow an exception in the application of the McPhearson Act. A psychoanalyst named Egon -- ‘

‘Listen,' Vince broke in. ‘Where is she?'

‘I've got troubles enough without you jumping on me.'

Chic eyed his younger brother. ‘I'll flip you for her.'

Vince Strikerock choked with rage.

‘A joke,' Chic murmured woodenly. ‘Sorry I said it; don't know why I said it. She's out somewhere buying clothes. She's expensive to keep, isn't she? You should have warned me. Put up a notice on the building's bulletin board. But I'll tell you seriously what I propose. I want you to get me into Karp und Sohnen Werke. Ever since Julie showed up here I've been thinking about this. Call it a deal.'

‘No deal.'

‘Then no Julie.'

Vince said, ‘What kind of job do you want with Karp?'

‘Anything. Well, anything in public relations, sales or promotion; not in the engineering or manufacturing end. The same type of work I've been doing for Maury Frauenzimmer. Clean hands type of work.'

His voice shaking, Vince said, ‘I'll get you in as assistant shipping clerk.'

Chic laughed sharply. ‘That's a good one. And I'll give you back Julie's left foot.'

‘Jesus.' Vince stared at him, unable to believe his ears. ‘You're depraved or something.'

‘Not at all. I'm in a very bad position, careerwise. All I have to bargain with is your ex-wife. What am I supposed to do? Sink obligingly into oblivion? The hell with that; I'm fighting to exist.' Chic seemed calm, fully rational.

‘Do you love her?' Vince said.

Now, for the first time, his brother's composure seemed to leave him. ‘What? Oh sure, I'm out of my mind with love for her -- can't you perceive that? How can you ask?' His tone was violently bitter. ‘That's why I'm going to trade her back to you for a job at Karp. Listen Vince, she's a cold, hostile cookie -- she's out for herself and no one else. As far as I can ascertain she came up here merely to hurt you. Ponder that. I tell you what. We've got a bad problem here, you and I, with Julie; it's ruining our lives. You agree? I think we should take it to an expert. Frankly it's too much for me. I can't solve it.'

‘What expert?'

‘Any expert. For instance the building marital guidance counsellor. Or let's take it to the last remaining psychoanalyst in the USEA, that Dr Egon Superb they told about on the TV. Let's go to him before they shut him down, too. What do you say? You know I'm right; you and I'll never manage to thrash this out.' He added. ‘And come out alive, anyhow the two of us.'

‘You go.'

‘Okay.' Chic nodded. ‘I'll go. But you agree to abide by his decision. Okay?'

‘Hell,' Vince said. ‘Then I'll go along, too. You think I'm going to depend on your verbal report of what he says?'

The door of the apartment opened. Vince turned. There in the doorway stood Julie, with a package under her arm.

‘Come back later,' Chic said to her. ‘Please.' He rose to his feet and walked towards her.

‘We're going to see a psychiatrist about you,' Vince said to Julie. ‘It's settled.' To his brother he said, ‘You and I'll split the fees. I'm not going to get stuck with the whole tab.'

‘Agreed,' Chic said, nodding. Awkwardly -- or so it seemed to Vince -- he kissed Julie on the cheek, patted her shoulder. To Vince he said, ‘And I still want that Job at Karp und Sohnen Werke, no matter how this comes out, no matter which of us gets her. You understand?'

Vince said, ‘I'll see what I can do.' He spoke grudgingly, with massive resentment. It seemed to him too much to ask.

But after all, Chic was his brother. There was such a thing as family.

Picking up the telephone, Chic said, ‘I'll call Dr Superb right now.'

‘At this time of night?' Julie said.

‘Tomorrow, then. Early.' With reluctance Chic set the phone down again. ‘I'm anxious to get started; this whole business weighs on my mind, and I've got other problems that are more important.' He glanced at Julie. ‘No offence meant.'

Stiffly, Julie said, ‘I haven't agreed to go to a psychiatrist or abide by anything he says. If I want to stay with you -- ‘

‘We'll do what Superb says,' Chic informed her. ‘And if he says for you to go back downstairs and you don't then I'll get a court order to bar you from my apartment. I mean it.' Vince had never heard his brother sound so hard; it surprised him. Probably it was due to Frauenzimmer Associates folding up. Chic's job was his whole life, after all.

‘A drink,' Chic said. And crossed to the liquor cabinet in the kitchen.

To her talent scout, Janet Raimer, Nicole said, ‘Where did you manage to dig up that?'

She gestured towards the folk singers twanging their electric guitars and nasally intoning away at the microphone in the centre of the Camellia Room of the White House. ‘They're really awful.' She felt thoroughly unhappy.

Businesslike and detached, Janet answered brightly, ‘From the conapt building Oak Farms in Cleveland, Ohio.'

‘Well, send them back,' Nicole said, and signalled Maxwell Jamison who sat, bulky and inert, on the far side of the large room. Jamison at once clambered to his feet, stretched, and made his way to the folk singers and their microphone.

They glanced at him. Apprehension showed on their faces and their droning song began to trail off.

‘I don't want to hurt your feelings,' Nicole said to them, ‘but I guess I've had enough of ethnic music for this evening. Sorry.' She gave them one of her radiant smiles; wanly they smiled back. They were finished. And they knew it.

Back to Oak Farm Conapts, Nicole said to herself. Where you belong.

A uniformed White House page approached her chair.

‘Mrs Thibodeaux,' the page whispered. ‘Assistant State Secretary Garth McRae is now waiting in the Easter Lily Alcove for you. He says you're expecting him.'

‘Oh yes,' Nicole said. ‘Thank you. Give him some coffee or a drink and tell him I'll be in shortly.'

The page departed.

‘Janet,' Nicole said, ‘I want you to play back that tape you made of your phone conversation with Kongrosian. I want to see for myself just how sick he is; with hypochondriacs you can never be certain.'

‘You understand there's no vid portion,' Janet said. ‘Kongrosian had a towel -- ‘

‘Yes, I realize that.' Nicole felt irritable. ‘But I know him well enough to tell by his voice alone. He gets that reticent, introverted quality when he's genuinely in distress. If he's just feeling sorry for himself he becomes garrulous.' She stood up, and at once the guests stood, too, here and there in their places throughout the Camellia Room. There were not many of them tonight; the hour was late, almost midnight, and the current programme of artistic talent was slender.

This was distinctly not one of the better evenings.

‘I'll tell you what,' Janet Raimer said archily. ‘If I can't do better than this, than the Moonrakers -- ‘ She gestured at the folk singers, who now were glumly packing up their instruments. ‘I'll arrange a programme entirely of the best of Ted Nitz' commercials.' She smiled, showing her stainless steel teeth. Nicole winced. Janet, sometimes, was just too much the witty professional woman. Just too amusing and poised, and wholly identified with this powerful office; Janet could be sure of herself any time and this bothered Nicole. There was no way to get at Janet Raimer.

No wonder every aspect of life had become for Janet a kind of game.

On the raised dais, a new group had replaced the defunct folk singers. Nicole examined her programme. This was the Las Vegas Modern String Quartet; they would in a moment, be playing a Haydn work, despite their august title. Maybe I'll go see Garth now, Nicole decided. Haydn seemed to her, with all the problems she had to cope with, a bit too nice. A bit too ornamental, not substantial enough.

When we get Goering here, she thought, we can bring in a brass band, street style, to play Bavarian military marches. I must remember to tell Janet that, she told herself. Or we could have some Wagner. Didn't the Nazis dote on Wagner? Yes, she was sure of that. She had been studying history books about the period of the Third Reich; Dr Goebbels, in his diaries, had mentioned the reverence felt by high Nazi officials at a performance of The Ring.

Or perhaps it was Meistersinger.

We could have the brass band play arrangements of themes from Parsifal, she decided with a secret spasm of amusement. In march tempo, of course. A sort of proctological version, just right for the Ubermenschen of the Third Reich.

Within twenty-four hours the von Lessinger technicians would have the conduits to 1944 completed. It was weird but perhaps by tomorrow at this time Hermann Goering would be here in this era, plucked from his own time period by the most wily of the White House negotiators, skinny, small, elder Major Tucker Behrans. Practically a der Alte himself, except that Army Major Behrans was alive and genuine and breathing, not a mere simulacrum. At least not as far as she knew. Although sometimes it seemed that way, seemed to her that she existed in the centre of a milieu comprised entirely of artificial creations of the cartel system, of A.G. Chemie conspiring with Karp u. Sohnen Werke in particular. Their commitment to ersatz reality ... it was frankly too much for her. She had, over the years of contact with it, developed a sense of pure dread.

‘I have an appointment,' she said to Janet. ‘Excuse me,' she rose, left the Camellia Room; two NP men fell in behind her as she made her way down the corridor to the Easter Lily Alcove where Garth McRae waited.

In the alcove Garth sat with another man whom she recognized -- by his uniform -- as a top official of the higher police. She did not know him. Evidently he had arrived with Garth; the two of them were consulting in low tones, unaware of her arrival.

‘Have you informed Karp und Sohnen?' she asked Garth.

At once both men were on their feet, respectful and attentive. ‘Oh yes, Mrs Thibodeaux,' Garth answered. ‘At least,' he added quickly, ‘I informed Anton Karp that the Rudi Kalbfleisch simulacrum is going to be discontinued soon. I -- haven't informed them that the next simulacrum will be obtained through other channels.'

‘Why not?' Nicole asked.

Glancing at his companion, Garth said, ‘Mrs Thibodeaux, this man is Wilder Pembroke, new Commissioner of the NP. He's warned me that Karp und Sohnen have held a closed, secret meeting of their top executive personnel and have discussed the possibility that the contract for the next der Alte will be let somewhere else.' Garth explained, ‘The NP of course has a number of individuals employed at Karp -- needless to say.'

Nicole said to the police official, ‘What will Karp do?'

‘The Werke will make public the fact that the der Altes are constructs, that the last living der Alte held office fifty years ago.' Pembroke cleared his throat noisily: he appeared singularly ill at ease. ‘This is a clear violation of basic law, of course. Such knowledge constitutes a state secret and cannot be brought before the Bes. Both Anton Karp and his father Felix Karp are perfectly aware of that; they discussed these legal aspects at their conference. They know that they -- and anyone else at policy level at the Werke -- would be instantly liable to prosecution.'

‘And yet they'd go ahead,' Nicole said, and thought to herself, So we're correct; the Karp people are already too strong. Already possess far too much autonomy. And they won't abandon this without a fight.'

‘Individuals high in cartel circles are peculiarly stiffnecked,' Pembroke said. ‘The last of the true Prussians, perhaps. The Attorney General has asked that you contact him before going ahead in this matter; he will be glad to outline the direction of the state's litigation against the Werke, and he's anxious to discuss several sensitive aspects with you. By and large, however, the Attorney General is prepared to move in at any time. As soon as he receives notification. However -- ‘ Pembroke glanced at her sideways.

‘I wonder. It's the summation of all data reaching me that the cartel system as a whole is simply too enormous, too sturdily constructed and interlocked, to be brought down. That, instead of direct action against it, some sort of quid pro quo should be brought about. Such appears to me to be much more desirable. And feasible.'

Nicole said, ‘But that's up to me.'

Both Garth McRae and Pembroke nodded in unison.

‘I will discuss this with Maxwell Jamison,' she said finally.

‘Max will have a relatively clear idea as to how this information about the der Alte will be received by the Bes, by the uniformed public. I have no idea how they would react. Would they riot? Would they find it amusing? Personally I find it amusing. I'm sure it would appear that way to me if I were, say, a rather minor employee of some cartel or government agency. Do you agree?'

Neither man smiled; both remained tense and sombre.

‘In my opinion, if I may say so,' Pembroke said, ‘release of this information will topple the entire structure of our society.'

‘But it is amusing,' Nicole persisted. ‘Isn't it? Rudi is a dummy, an ersatz creation of the cartel system, and yet he's the highest elected official in the USEA. These people voted for him and for the der Alte before him and so on back for fifty years -- I'm sorry, but it has to be funny; there's no other way to look at it.' She was laughing now; the idea of not knowing this Geheimnis, this state secret and suddenly finding it out, was too much for her. ‘I think I'll go ahead,' she told Garth. ‘Yes, I've made up my mind; contact the Karp Werke tomorrow morning. Talk directly with both Anton and Felix. Tell them, among other things, that we will arrest them instantly if they try to betray us to the Bes. Tell them that the NP is ready to move on them.'

‘Yes, Mrs Thibodeaux,' Garth said, with gloom.

‘And don't take it so hard,' Nicole said. ‘If the Karps do go ahead and release the Geheimnis, we'll still survive -- I think you're wrong: it won't mean the end of our status quo at all.'

Garth said, ‘Mrs Thibodeaux, if the Karps release this information, no matter how the Bes react, there can never be another der Alte. And legally speaking, you hold your position of authority only because you're the wife. It's hard to keep that in mind, because -- ‘ Garth hesitated.

‘Say it,' Nicole said.

‘Because it's clear to everyone, Bes and Ges alike, that you are the ultimate authority in the establishment. And it's essential to maintain the myth that somehow, indirectly at least, you were placed here by the people, by mass public vote.'

There was silence.

Pembroke said finally, ‘Perhaps the NP should move in on the Karps before they can put out their white paper. Thereby we'd cut them off from the organs of communication.'

‘Even under arrest,' Nicole said, ‘the Karps would manage to gain access to at least one of the media. Better face that fact.'

‘But their reputation, if they're under arrest -- ‘

‘The only solution,' Nicole said thoughtfully, half to herself, ‘would be to assassinate those officers of the Werke who attended the policy meeting. In other words, all the Ges of the cartel, no matter how many there are. Even if the numbers ran up into the hundreds.' In other words, she said to herself, a purge. Such as one generally only witnessed in times of revolution.

She shrank from the idea.

‘Nacht und Nebel,'

Pembroke murmured.

‘What?' Nicole said.

‘The Nazi term for the invisible agents of the government who deal in murder.' He faced Nicole calmly. ‘Night and fog. They were the Einsatzgruppen. Monsters. Of course our police, the NP has nothing like that. I'm sorry; you'll have to act through the military. Not through us.'

‘I was joking,' Nicole said.

Both men studied her.

‘There are no more purges,' Nicole said. ‘There haven't been any since World War Three. You know that. We're too modern, too civilized, for massacres now.'

Pembroke, frowning, his lips twitching nervously, said, ‘Mrs Thibodeaux, when the technicians from the von Lessinger Institute bring Goering to our period, perhaps you can arrange for an Einsatzgruppe to be brought, too. It could assume responsibility vis-à-vis the Karps and then return to the Age of Barbarism.'

She stared at him open-mouthed.

‘I'm serious,' Pembroke said, stammering slightly. ‘It certainly would be better -- for us at least -- than allowing the Karps to make public the information they possess. That's the worst alternative of all.'

‘I agree,' Garth McRae said.

‘It's insane,' Nicole said.

Garth McRae said, ‘Is it? Through von Lessinger's principle we have access to trained assassins, and, as you pointed out, in our era no such professionals exist. I doubt if it would mean the destruction of scores or hundreds of individuals. I'd guess it could be limited to the board of directors, the executive vice-presidents of the Werke. Possibly as few as eight men.'

‘And,' Pembroke pointed out eagerly, ‘these eight men, these top officers at Karp, are de facto criminals; they've deliberately met and conspired against the legal government. They're on a par with the Sons of Job. With that Bertold Goltz. Even though they wear black bow ties every evening and drink vintage wine and don't squabble in the gutters and streets.'

‘May I say,' Nicole said drily, ‘that all of us are de facto criminals. Because this government -- as you pointed out is based on a fraud. And of the most primary magnitude.'

‘But it's the legal government,' Garth said. ‘Fraud or not. And the so-called "fraud" is in the best interests of the people. We're not doing it to exploit anyone -- as the cartel system does. We're not out to engorge ourselves at somebody else's expense.'

At least, Nicole thought, that's what we tell ourselves.

Pembroke said respectfully, ‘Having talked just now to the Attorney General I know how he feels about the rising power of the cartels. Epstein feels they must be cut down. It's essential!'

‘Perhaps,' Nicole said, ‘you have a trifle too much respect for the cartels. I don't. And -- perhaps we should wait a day or so until Hermann Goering is with us and we can ask for an opinion from him.'

Now the two men were staring at her open-mouthed.

‘I'm not serious,' she said. Or was she? She did not know, herself. ‘After all,' she said, ‘Goering founded the Gestapo."

‘I could never approve of that,' Pembroke said, with hauteur.

‘But you don't make policy,' Nicole said to him. ‘Technically, Rudi does. That is, I do. I can compel you to act on my behalf in this matter. And you'd do it ... unless, of course, you'd prefer to join the Sons of Job and march up and down the streets throwing rocks and chanting.'

Both Garth McRae and Pembroke looked uneasy. And acutely unhappy.

‘Don't be frightened,' Nicole said. ‘Do you know what the true basis of political power is? Not guns or troops but the ability to get others to do what you want them to do. By whatever means are appropriate. I know I can get the NP to do what I want -- despite what you personally feel. I can get Hermann Goering to do what I want. It won't be Goering's decision; it'll be mine.'

‘I hope,' Pembroke said presently, ‘that you're right, that you will be able to handle Goering. I admit that on a strictly subjective level I'm frightened, frightened of this entire experiment with the past. You may open the floodgates. Goering is not a clown.'

‘I'm well aware of that,' Nicole said. ‘And don't presume to give me advice, Mr Pembroke. It's not your place.'

Pembroke flushed, was silent a moment and then said in a low voice, ‘Sorry. Now, if it's all right with you, Mrs Thibodeaux, I'd like to bring up one other matter. It has to do with the sole remaining psychoanalyst now practising in the USEA. Dr Egon Superb. In explanation of the NP's reason for allowing him to -- ‘

‘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.