The Simulacra

‘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.'

‘What's unreal and what's real? To me she's more real than anything else; than you, even. Even than myself, my own life.'

‘Holy smoke,' Al said. He was impressed. ‘Well, at least you have something to live for.'

‘Right,' Ian said, and nodded.

‘We'll see what Superb says on Friday,' Al said. ‘We'll ask him just how schizophrenic -- if at all -- it is.' He shrugged.

‘Maybe I'm wrong; maybe it isn't.' Maybe it's Luke and I who are the insane ones, he thought. To him, Luke for example, was much more real, much more an influencing factor, than Nicole Thibodeaux. But then, he had seen Nicole in the flesh, and Ian had not. That made all the difference, although he was not sure quite why.

He picked up his jug and began practising once more.

And, after a pause, Ian Duncan did the same, joining in.

Together, they puffed away.

10

The Army Major, thin, small and erect, said, ‘Frau Thibodeaux, this is the Reichsmarschall, Herr Herma

The heavily built man, wearing -- incredibly -- a toga-style white robe and holding on a leather leash what appeared to be a lion cub, stepped forward and said in German, ‘I am glad to meet you, Mrs Thibodeaux.'

‘Reichsmarschall,' Nicole said, ‘do you know where you are at this moment?'

‘Yes,' Goering nodded. To the lion cub he said severely, ‘Sei ruhig, Marsi.' He fussed with the cub, calming it.

All this Bertold Goltz watched. He had gone slightly ahead in his time, by use of his own von Lessinger equipment; he had become impatient waiting for Nicole to arrange the transfer of Goering. Here it was now; or rather, here it would be in seven more hours.

It was easy, possessing von Lessinger equipment, to penetrate the White House despite its NP guards; Goltz had merely gone far back into the past, before the White House existed, and then had returned to this near future. He had done such a thing several times already and would do it again; he knew that because he had run on to his future self, caught in the act. It amused him, that meeting; not only was he able to observe Nicole freely but he could also observe his past and future selves -- the future, at least, in terms of possibility.

Of potentiality, rather than actuality. The vista spread out for his inspection of the perhaps.

They will make a deal, Goltz decided. Nicole and Goering; the Reichsmarschall, taken first from 1941 and then from 1944, will be shown the ruined Germany of 1945, will see the end in store for the Nazis -- will see himself in the dock at Nuremberg, and, at last, will view his own suicide by a poison carried in a rectal suppository. This will rather influence him, to say the least. A deal will not be difficult to hatch out; the Nazis, even normally, were experts at deals.

A few miracle weapons from the future, appearing at the end of World War Two, and the Age of Barbarism would last -- not thirteen years -- but, as Hitler had sworn, a thousand. A death ray, laser beams, hydrogen bombs in the 100 megaton range ... would assist the armed forces of the Third Reich considerably. Plus, of course, the A-1 and the A-2; or, as the Allies had called them, the V-1 and V-2. Now the Nazis would have an A-3, A-4, and so on, without limit, if necessary.

Goltz frowned. For, in addition to this, other possibilities, murky and dense, spread out parallel with an almost occult darkness surrounding them. What did these less-likely futures consist of? Dangerous, and yet surely better than the clear one, the track laden with miracle weapons. ‘You, there,' a White House NP man called, suddenly catching sight of Goltz, as he stood partially concealed in the corner of the Bog Orchid Room. The guard instantly whipped out a pistol and took aim.

The conference between Thibodeaux, Goering, and four military advisors, abruptly terminated. All turned towards Goltz and the NP man.

‘Frau,' Goltz said, a parody of Goering's greeting. He stepped forth, confidently; after all, he previewed this with his von Lessinger gear. ‘You know who I am. The spectre at the feast.' He chuckled.

But of course the White House possessed von Lessinger equipment, too; they had anticipated this, just as he had.

This exposure had in it the element of fatality. It could not be avoided; no alternate tracks branched off, here ... not that Goltz wished for them. Long ago he had learned that ultimately there was no future for him in anonymity.

‘Some other time, Goltz,' Nicole said with distaste.

‘Now,' Goltz said, walking towards her.

The NP man glanced at her for instructions; he appeared highly confused.

Nicole waved him irritably.

‘Who is this?' The Reichsmarschall inquired, studying Goltz.

Goltz said, ‘Just a poor Jew. Not like Emil Stark, who I notice is not here, Nicole, despite your promise. There are many poor Jews, Reichsmarschall. In your time and ours both. I have nothing of cultural or economic value which you can confiscate; no art work, no Geld. Sorry.' He seated himself at the conference table and poured a glass of ice water from the pitcher at hand.

‘Is your pet, Marsi, feral? Ja oder nein?'

‘No,' Goering said, petting the cub expertly, He had sat down, placing the cub on the table before him; it curled up obediently, its eyes half-closed.

‘My presence,' Goltz said, ‘my Jewish presence, is unwanted. I wonder why Emil Stark isn't here. Why not. Nicole?' He eyed her. ‘Did you fear to offend the Reichsmarschall? Strange ... after all, Himmler dealt with Jews in Hungary, through Eichma