The Simulacra

The marchers turned, came head-on towards their autocab.

The cab halted.

Molly said caustically, ‘He even commands the obedience of machines. At least the local ones.' She laughed briefly, uneasily.

‘We'd better get out of the way,' Jim Planck said, ‘or they're going to be swarming over us like Martian column ants.' He fiddled with the controls of the auto-cab. ‘Damn this worn-out contraption: it's dead as a doornail.'

‘Killed by awe,' Molly said.

The first line of marchers contained Goltz, who strode along in the centre, transporting a flowing, multi-coloured cloth ba

‘He's telling us to get out of the way,' Molly said. ‘Maybe we'd better forget about recording Kongrosian and step out and join him. Sign up for the movement. What do you say, Nat? Here's your chance. You can rightfully say you were forced to.' She opened the door of the cab and hopped lightly out on to the sidewalk. ‘I'm not giving up my life because of a stalled circuit in an auto-cab twenty years out of date.'

‘Hail, mighty leader,' Jim Planck said shortly, and also hopped out to join Molly on the sidewalk, out of the path of the marchers, who were now, as a body, shouting angrily and gesturing.

Nat said, ‘I'm staying here.' He remained where he was surrounded by the recording equipment, his hand reflexively resting on his precious Ampek F-a2; he did not intend to abandon it, even to Bertold Goltz.

Coming rapidly down the street, Goltz all at once gri

It was a sympathetic grin, as if Goltz, despite the seriousness of his political intentions, had room left in his heart for a trace of empathy.

‘You got troubles, too?' Goltz called to Nat. Now the first rank of marchers -- including the Leader -- had reached the old, stalled auto-cab; the rank divided and dribbled past, raggedly, on both sides. Goltz, however, halted. He brought out a rumpled red handkerchief and mopped the shiny, steaming flesh of his neck and brow.

‘Sorry I'm in your way,' Nat said.

‘Heck,' Goltz said, ‘I was expecting you.' He glanced up, his dark, intelligent, luminous eyes alert. ‘Nat Flieger, head of Artists and Repertoire for Electronic Musical Enterprise of Tijuana. Up here in this land of ferns and frogs to record Richard Kongrosian ... because you don't happen to know that Kongrosian isn't home. He's at Franklin Aimes Neuropsychiatric Hospital in San Francisco.'

‘Christ,' Nat said, taken aback.

‘Why not record me instead?' Goltz said. Amiably.

‘Doing what?'

‘Oh, I can shout or rant a few historic slogans for you. Half an hour's worth or so ... enough to fill up a small record. It may not sell well today or tomorrow, but one of these days -- ‘ Goltz winked at Nat.

‘No thanks,' Nat said.

‘Is your Ganymedean creature too pure for what I have to say?' The smile was empty of warmth, now; it was fixed starkly in place.

Nat said, ‘I'm a Jew, Mr Goltz. So it's hard for me to look on neo-Nazism with much enthusiasm.'

After a pause Goltz said, ‘I'm a Jew, too, Mr Flieger. Or more properly, an Israeli. Look it up. It's in the records. Any good newspaper or media news morgue can tell you that.'

Nat stared at him.

‘Our enemy, yours and mine,' Goltz said, ‘is the der Alte system. They're the real inheritors of the Nazi past. Think about that. They, and the cartels. A.G. Chemie, Karp und Sohnen Werke ... didn't you know that? Where have you been, Flieger? Haven't you been listening?'

After an interval Nat said, ‘I've been listening. But I haven't been very much convinced.'

‘I'll tell you something, then,' Goltz said. ‘Nicole and the people around her, our Mutter, is going to make use of von Lessinger's time travel principle to make contact with the Third Reich, with Herma

‘I've -- heard rumours.' Nat shrugged.

‘You're not a Ge,' Goltz said. ‘You're like me, Flieger, me and my people. You're forever on the outside. We're not even supposed to hear rumours. There shouldn't have been a leak. But we Bes are not going to talk -- do you agree! Bringing Fat Herma

Presently Nat said, ‘If it's true -- ‘

‘It's true, Flieger.' Goltz nodded.

‘Then it puts your movement in a new light.'

‘Come and see me,' Goltz said. ‘When the news is made public. When you know it's true. Okay?'

Nat said nothing. He did not meet the man's dark intense gaze.

‘So long, Flieger.' Goltz said. And picking up his ba

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.