The Simulacra

‘Move along,' the NP man said to the two of them.

Still -- pointlessly -- holding their jugs, Al Miller and Ian Duncan moved step by step down the corridor, in the direction of the outer door and the waiting black medical van which they knew lay beyond.

It was night, and Ian Duncan found himself at a deserted street corner, cold and shivering, blinking in the glaring white light of an urban pubtrans loading platform. What am I doing here? he asked himself, bewildered. He looked at his wristwatch; it was eight o'clock. I'm supposed to be at the All Souls Meeting, aren't I? he thought dazedly.

I can't miss another one, he realized. Two in a row -- it's a terrible fine; it's economically ruinous. He began to walk.

The familiar building, The Abraham Lincoln with all its network of towers and windows, lay extended ahead, it was not far and he hurried, breathing deeply, trying to keep a good steady pace. It must be over, he thought. The lights in the great central auditorium were not lit. Damn it, he breathed in despair.

‘All Souls over?' he said to the doorman as he entered the lobby, his identification held out to the official reader.

‘You're a little confused, Mr Duncan,' Vince Strikerock said. ‘All Souls was last night; this is Friday.'

Something's gone wrong, Ian realized. But he said nothing; he merely nodded and hurried on towards the elevator.

As he emerged from the elevator on his own floor, a door opened and a furtive figure beckoned him. ‘Hey, Duncan!'

It was a building resident named Corley, who he barely knew. Because an encounter like this could be disastrous, Ian approached him with wariness. ‘What is it?'

‘A rumour,' Corley said in a rapid, fear-filled voice.

‘About your last relpol test -- some irregularity. They're going to rouse you at five or six A.M. tomorrow and spring a surprise relpol quiz on you.' He glanced up and down the hall. ‘Study the late 1980's and the religio-collectivist movements in particular. Got it?'

‘Sure,' Ian said, with gratitude. ‘And thanks a lot. Maybe I can do the same -- ‘ He broke off, because Corley had scuttled back into his own apartment again and shut the door. Ian was alone.

Certainly very nice of him, he thought as he walked on.

Probably saved my hide, kept me from being forcibly evicted right out of here, forever.

When he reached his apartment he made himself comfortable, with all his reference books on the political history of the United States spread out around him. I'll study all night, he decided. Because I have to pass that quiz; I have no choice.

To keep himself awake, he turned on the TV. Presently the warm, familiar being, the presence of the First Lady, flowed into existence and began to permeate the room.

‘ ... and at our musical tonight,' she was saying, ‘we will have a saxophone quartet which will play themes from Wagner's operas, in particular my favourite, die Meistersinger. I believe we will all find that a deeply rewarding and certainly an enriching experience to cherish. And, after that, I have arranged to bring you once again an old favourite of yours, the world-renowned cellist, Henri LeClerc, in a programme of Jerome Kern and Cole Porter.' She smiled, and at his pile of reference books, Ian Duncan smiled back.

I wonder how it would be to play at the White House, he said to himself. To perform before the First Lady. Too bad I never learned to play any kind of musical instrument. I can't act, write poems, dance or sing -- nothing. So what hope is there for me? Now, if I had come from a musical family, if I had had a father or a mother to teach me ...

Glumly, he scratched a few notes on the rise of the French Christian-Fascist Party of 1975. And then, drawn as always to the TV set, he put his pen down and turned his chair so that he faced the set. Nicole was now exhibiting a piece of Delft tile which she had picked up, she explained, in a little shop in Schweinfurt, Germany. What lovely clear colours it had ... he watched, fascinated,' as her strong, slim fingers caressed the shiny surface of the baked enamel tile.

‘See the tile,' Nicole was murmuring in her husky voice. ‘Don't you wish you had a tile like that? Isn't it lovely?'

‘Yes,' Ian Duncan said.

‘How many of you would like someday to see such a tile?'

Nicole asked. ‘Raise your hands.'

Ian raised his hand hopefully.

‘Oh, a whole lot of you,' Nicole said, smiling her intimate radiant smile. ‘Well, perhaps later we will have another tour of the White House. Would you like that?'

Hopping up and down in his chair, Ian said, ‘Yes, I'd like that!'

On the TV screen she was smiling directly at him, it seemed. And so he smiled back. And then, reluctantly, feeling a great weight descend over him, he at last turned back to his reference books. Back to the harsh realities of his daily endless life.

Against the window of his apartment something bumped and a voice called to him thinly, ‘Ian Duncan, I don't have much time!'

Whirling, he saw outside in the night darkness a shape drifting, an egg-like construction that hovered. Within it a man waved at him energetically, still calling. The egg gave off a dull putt-putt noise, its jets idling as the man kicked open the hatch of the vehicle and lifted himself out.

Are they after me already on this quiz? Ian Duncan asked himself. He stood up, feeling helpless. So soon ... I'm not ready, yet.

Angrily, the man in the vehicle spun the jets until their steady white exhaust-firing met the surface of the building; the room shuddered and bits of plaster broke away. The window itself collapsed as the heat of the jets crossed it.

Through the gap exposed the man yelled once more, trying to attract Ian Duncan's dulled faculties.

‘Hey, Duncan! Hurry up! I have your buddy already; he's on his way in another ship!' The man, elderly, wearing an expensive natural fibre blue pinstripe suit which was slightly old-fashioned, lowered himself with dexterity from the hovering egg-shaped vehicle and dropped feet-first into the room. ‘We have to get going if we're to make it. You don't remember me? Neither did Al.'

Ian Duncan stared at him, wondering who he was and who Al was.

‘Mama's psychologists did a good job of working you over,' the elderly man panted. ‘That Bethesda -- it must be quite a place.' He came towards Ian, caught hold of him by the shoulder. ‘The NP's are shutting down all the jalopy jungles; I have to beat it to Mars and I'm taking you along with me. Try to pull yourself together; I'm Loony Luke you don't remember me now but you will after we're all on Mars and you see your buddy Al again. Come on!'

Luke propelled him towards the gap in the wall of the room, the opening which had once been a window, and towards the vehicle -- it was called a jalopy, Ian realized -- drifting beyond.

‘Okay,' Ian said, wondering what he should take with him. What would he need on Mars? Toothbrush, pyjamas, a heavy coat? He looked frantically around his apartment, one last inspection of it.

Far off, police sirens sounded.

Luke scrambled back into the jalopy, and Ian followed, taking hold of the elderly man's extended hand. The floor of the jalopy, he discovered to his surprise crawled with bright orange bug-like creatures whose ante

You'll be all right now, the papoolas were thinking in unison.

Don't worry; Loony Luke got you away in time, just barely in time. Relax.

‘Yes,' Ian agreed. He lay back against the side of the jalopy and relaxed, as the ship shot upwards into the night emptiness and the new planet which lay ahead.