The Simulacra

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 ta

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.