The Simulacra (18 page)

Nicole said, “Thank you for your hospitality.” The house, she discovered, was warm and dry; it was a relief from the dreary landscape outside. A fire burned in the fireplace and she went over to it.

“I heard the strangest garbled thing over the TV just now,” Mrs. Kongrosian said. “Something about der Alte and about you; I couldn’t make any sense out of it. Something having to do with you—well, not existing, I think. Do you know what I’m talking about? What they were talking about?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Nicole said, warming herself.

Mrs. Kongrosian said, “I’ll go fix the coffee. They—Mr. Flieger and the others from EME—should be back fairly soon, now. For dinner. Are you alone? Nobody’s with you?” She seemed bewildered.

“I’m entirely alone,” Nicole said. She wondered if Wilder Pembroke was dead by now. She hoped so, for her own sake. “Your husband,” she said, “is a very fine person. I owe him a great deal.” My life, as a matter of fact, she realized.

“He certainly thinks a lot of you, too,” Mrs. Kongrosian said.

“Can I stay here?” Nicole said suddenly.

“Of course. For as long as you wish.”

“Thanks,” Nicole said. She felt a little better. Maybe I’ll never go back, she thought. After all, what’s there to go back to? Janet is dead, Bertold Goltz is dead, even Reichsmarschall Goering is dead, and of course Wilder Pembroke; he’s dead by now, too. And the entire ruling council, all the half-concealed figures who had stood behind her. Assuming of course that the NP men had carried out their orders, which no doubt they had.

And, she thought, I can’t rule any longer; the news machines have seen to that in their blind, efficient, mechanical way. They and the Karps. So now, she decided, it’s the Karps’ turn; they can hold power for a while. Until they in turn are preempted, as I was.

She thought, I can’t even go to Mars. At least not by jalopy; I saw to that myself. But there are other ways. Big legal commercial ships and government ships as well. Very fast ships which belong to the military; perhaps I could commandeer one of those. I could work through Rudi, even though he is—or it is— on its deathbed. Legally, the army has sworn an oath to him; they’re supposed to do what he, or it, tells them.

“Coffee? Are you all right? Are you ready for it?” Mrs. Kongrosian peered at her intently.

“Yes,” Nicole answered, “I am.” She followed Mrs. Kongrosian into the kitchen of the big old house.

Outside the house the rain fell heavily, now. Nicole shivered and tried not to look directly at it. The rain frightened her; it was like an omen. A reminder of some evil fate to come.

“What are you afraid of?” Mrs. Kongrosian said suddenly, acutely.

“I don’t know,” Nicole confessed.

“I’ve seen Richard like this. It must be the climate, here. It’s so dismal and monotonous. But I thought from his description of you that you’d never be this way. He always made you sound so brave. So forceful.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

Mrs. Kongrosian patted her on the arm. “You don’t disappoint me. I like you very much. I’m sure it is the climate that’s getting you down.”

“Maybe so,” Nicole said. But she knew better. It was more than the rain. Much more.

FIFTEEN

The hard-eyed, middle-aged and utterly professional NP man said to Maury Frauenzimmer and Chic Strikerock, “You’re both under arrest. Come along with me.”

“You see?” Maury said with scalding accusation to Chic. “I told you so! The bastards have it in for us. We’re the fall-guys in this. The lowest dupes on the ladder—the ultimate simps.”

With Maury, Chic left the small, familiar, cluttered office of Frauenzimmer Associates, the NP man immediately behind them. He and Maury trudged gloomily, in silence, to the parked police car.

“A couple of hours ago,” Maury bust out suddenly, “we had everything. Now, on account of your brother, look what we’ve got.
Nothing
.”

Chic did not respond. There was no answer he could make.

“I’m going to get you, Chic,” Maury said as the police car started up and moved toward the autobahn. “So help me god.”

“We’ll get out of this,” Chic said. “We’ve had troubles before. They’ve always passed. Somehow.”

“If only you had emigrated,” Maury said.

And I wish I had, too, Chic thought to himself. Right now Richard Kongrosian and I would be—where? In deep space, on our way to our frontier farm, beginning a chaste, new life. And instead . . . this. He wondered where Kongrosian was, right now. Doing just as badly? Hardly likely.

“Next time when you start to leave the firm—” Maury began.

“Okay!” Chic said savagely. “Let’s forget it. What can be done now?” The one I’d like to get, he thought, is my brother Vince. And, after him, Anton and old Felix Karp.

The NP man seated next to him all at once said to the NP man driving, “Hey look, Sid. A roadblock.”

The police car slowed. Peering, Chic saw, at the roadblock, an army mobile weapons carrier; on it, a big gun pointed eerily at the lines of cars and wheels halted by the barricade across the eight lanes.

Beside Chic the NP man drew his hand weapon. So did the driver.

“What’s going on?” Chic asked, his heart laboring.

Neither NP man answered; their gaze was riveted on the army unit blocking the autobahn in effective, trained fashion. Both men had become acutely tense; Chic could sense it. It permeated the interior of the car.

At that moment, as the police car crept along almost touching the car ahead, a Theodorous Nitz commercial slipped in through the open window.

“Do people seem able to see right through your clothing?” it squeaked at them, bat-like, as it slithered into concealment under the front seat. “In public, does your fly seem to be unzipped and do you need to glance down—”

It died into silence as the NP man driving venomously shot it with his pistol. “Jeez, I hate those things,” he spat out with aversion.

At the sound of the shot the police car was immediately surrounded by soldiers, all armed and all hair-trigger alert.

“Put your weapons down!” the sergeant in charge barked.

Reluctantly, the two NP men tossed their guns aside. A soldier plucked the car door open; the two NP men stepped warily out, their arms raised.

“Whom were you shooting at?” the sergeant demanded, “At us?”

“A Nitz commercial,” one of the NP men said shakily. “Look in the car, under the seat; we weren’t shooting at you—honest!”

“He’s telling the truth,” a soldier said finally, after poking about in the car. “There is a dead Theodorous Nitz commercial under the seat.”

The sergeant reflected and then decided. “You can go on. But leave your weapons with us.” He added, “And your prisoners. And from now on you take all your orders from GHQ, not from the higher police.”

At once the two NP men hopped back into their car; the doors slammed shut as they drove off into traffic as rapidly as possible, through the opening in the army barricade. Chic and Maury watched them go.

“What’s up?” Chic asked.

“You’re free to go,” the sergeant informed him. “Return to your homes and stay inside. Don’t participate in anything going on in the streets; no matter what seems to be happening.” The squad of soldiers moved off then, leaving Chic and Maury standing alone.

“It’s a revolt,” Maury said, his jaw hanging. “By the army.”

“Or by the police,” Chic said, thinking rapidly. “We’re going to have to hitchhike back to town.” He hadn’t hitch hiked since he was a kid; it seemed odd to be doing it now, in his adult years. It was almost refreshing. He began to walk down the stalled lines of traffic, his thumb out. Wind blew in his face; it smelled of land and water and big cities. He took a deep, full breath of it.

“Wait for me!” Maury yelled, and hurried after him.

In the sky, to the north, an immense, gray, mushroom-like cloud all at once formed. And a rumble stirred through the earth, jarring Chic and making him jump. Shielding his eyes he peered to see; what had happened? An explosion, perhaps a small, tactical A-bomb. Now he inhaled the reek of ashes and knew definitely what it was.

A soldier, striding past him, said over his shoulder, “The local branch of Karp und Sohnen Werke.” He grinned starkly at Chic and hurried on.

Maury said in a soft voice, “They blew it up. The army blew up Karp.”

“I guess so,” Chic said, dazed. Again, reflexively, he stuck out his thumb, searching for their ride.

Above, two army rockets streaked in pursuit of an NP ship; Chic watched them until they were gone from sight.

It’s a full-scale war, he said to himself, awed.

“I wonder if they’re going to blow us up, too,” Maury said. “I mean the factory, Frauenzimmer Associates.”

“We’re too small,” Chic said.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Maury said, nodding hopefully.

It’s good to be small, Chic realized, in times like this. And the smaller the better. Right down to the vanishing point.

Ahead of him and Maury a car had stopped. They walked toward it.

Now, to the east, another fungus-shaped mass of cloud material expanded to fill the sky, and again the ground shook. That would be A.G. Chemie, Chic decided as he got into the waiting car.

“Where you boys headed for?” the driver of the car, a plump, red-haired man, inquired.

Maury said, “Anywhere and everywhere, mister. Just so it’s away from all this trouble.”

“I agree,” the plump, red-haired man said, and started the car into motion. “Oh, how I agree.” It was an old, out-of-style car but it was good enough. Chic Strikerock sat back and made himself comfortable.

Beside him, visibly relieved, Maury Frauenzimmer did the same.

“I guess they’re getting them big cartels,” the red-headed man said as he drove slowly forward, following the car ahead of him through the barricade’s narrow aperture and out the far side.

“Sure are,” Maury said.

“About time,” the red-headed man said.

“Right,” Chic Strikerock said. “I’m with you there.”

The car, gathering speed, moved on.

In the large old wooden building, full of dust and echoes, the chuppers moved about, talking with one another, drinking Cokes, and a few of them were dancing. It was the dancing which interested Nat Flieger, and he led the portable Ampek F-a2 in that direction.

“Dancing, no,” Jim Planck said to him, “singing, yes. Wait until they begin to sing again. If you can dignify it by calling it that.”

Nat said, “The sounds of their dancing are rhythmic. I think we ought to try to pick that up, too.”

“Technically you’re head of this venture,” Jim admitted. “But I’ve done an awful lot of recording in my time and I say this is useless. It’ll be there on the tape, admittedly, or rather in that
wormy
of yours. But it’ll sound like nothing. Nothing at all.” He glared remorselessly at Nat.

But I intend to try anyhow, Nat said to himself.

“They’re so bent,” Molly said, standing beside him. “All of them . . . and they’re so short. Most of them aren’t even as tall as I am.”

“They lost,” Jim said, with a laconic shrug. “Remember? What was it, two hundred thousand years ago? Three hundred thousand? Anyhow it was quite a while ago. I doubt if they’ll survive very much longer this time either. They just don’t look like they have it. They look—burdened.”

That was it, Nat realized. The chuppers—the Neanderthals— looked weighed down, and by an impossible task, that of survival itself. Jim was absolutely correct; they just were not equipped for that task. Meek, small and hunched, apologetic, shuffling and mumbling, they lurched along their meager life-track, getting nearer each moment to the end.

So we’d better record this while we can, Nat decided. Because it probably won’t be long now, from the looks of it.
Or . . . could I be wrong?

A chupper, an adult male wearing a plaid shirt and light gray work pants, bumped against Nat and muttered an inarticulate apology.

“That’s okay,” Nat assured him. He felt, then, the desire to test his theory, to try to cheer up this failing life form, this throw-back. “Let me buy you a beer,” he said to the chupper. “Okay?” There was, he knew, a bar of sorts in the rear of the building, this large, central recreation hall which the chuppers seemed to possess collectively.

The chupper, glancing at him shyly, mumbled a no thanks.

“Why not?” Nat demanded.

“’Cause—” The chupper seemed unable to meet Nat’s gaze; he regarded the floor, clenched and unclenched his fists in a closed-circuit-like but passing spasm. “I can’t,” the chupper finally managed to say. However, he did not go. He remained standing in front of Nat, still staring down and still grimacing. Probably he was frightened, Nat decided. Embarrassed in a frightened, obliterating way.

To the chupper Jim Planck said drawlingly, “Hey, can you sing any good chupper songs? We’ll record you.” He winked at Nat.

“Leave him alone,” Molly said. “You can see he can’t sing. He can’t do anything—that’s obvious.” She walked away, clearly angry at both of them. The chupper glanced after her listlessly, drooping in his chupper fashion; his eyes were dull.

Would anything, Nat wondered, make those dull eyes light up? Why did the chuppers want to survive, if life meant so little to them? He thought suddenly, Maybe they’re waiting. For something that hasn’t happened yet, but which they know—or hope—will occur. That would explain their manner, their— emptiness.

“Leave him alone,” Nat said to Jim Planck. “She’s right.” He put his hand on Jim’s shoulder but the recording expert pulled away.

“I think they can do a lot more than they appear to be able to,” Jim said. “It’s almost as if they’re marking time, not expending themselves. Not trying. Hell, I’d like to see them try.”

“So would I,” Nat said. “But we’re not going to be able to get them to try.”

Off in a corner of the hall a television set boomed loudly, and a number of chuppers, both male and female, had wandered over to it to stand inertly in front of it. The TV set, Nat realized, was giving news of some urgent sort. At once he turned his attention that way; something had happened.

“You hear what the newscaster is saying?” Jim said in his ear. “My god, some damn thing about a war.”

The two of them edged through the throng of chuppers, shoving their way up to the TV set. Molly was already there, already absorbed in listening.

“It’s a revolution,” she said stonily to Nat, above the hollow, booming uproar emanating from the TV set’s audio system. “Karp—” Her face was drenched with disbelief. “The Karps and A.G. Chemie, they tried to seize power, along with the National Police.”

The TV screen showed a smoking, virtually disintegrated ruin, the remains of buildings, an industrial installation of great magnitude that had been all but obliterated. It was, to Nat, unrecognizable.

“That’s Karp’s Detroit branch,” Molly managed to tell Nat, above the racket. “The military got it. Honest to god, that’s what the announcer just said.”

Jim Planck, studying the screen impassively, said, “Who’s winning?”

“Nobody yet,” Molly said. “Evidently. I don’t know. Listen and see what he says. It’s just broken out, just getting underway.”

The chuppers, listening and watching, had become silent. The phonograph which had played background music for them to shuffle to had become silent, too. The chuppers, almost all of them now, stood clustered around the TV set, rapt and attentive as they witnessed the scenes of fighting between the armed forces of the USEA and the issue from the barracks of the National Police backed up by the cartel system.

“. . . in California,” the announcer was spluttering, “the West Coast Division of the NP surrendered intact to the Sixth Army under General Hoheit. However in Nevada—” The set showed a street scene, downtown Reno; an army barricade had been hastily erected, and police snipers were firing at it from the windows of the nearby buildings. “Ultimately,” the newscaster said, “the fact that the armed forces possess a virtual monopoly in atomic weapons would seem to guarantee them victory. But for the present, we can only . . .” The newscaster rattled excitedly on, as all over the USEA the mechanical reporting machines coasted about in the areas of conflict, gathering data for him.

“It’s going to be a long fight,” Jim Planck said suddenly to Nat. He looked gray and tired. “I guess we’re darn lucky we’re here, out of the way,” he murmured, half to himself. “It’s a good time to lay low.”

The screen showed a clash between a police patrol and an army unit, now; the two fired rapidly at each other, scurrying for cover as shots zinged from their automatic small arms. A soldier pitched forward on his face and then so did a gray NP man.

Next to Nat Flieger a chupper, watching absorbedly, nudged the chupper standing beside him. The two chuppers, both males, smiled at each other. A covert, meaningful smile. Nat saw it, saw the expression on their two faces. And then he realized that all the chuppers had become bright-eyed with the same secret pleasure.

What’s going on here?
Nat wondered.

Beside him, Jim Planck said softly, “Nat, my god,
They’ve
been waiting for this
.”

So this is it, Nat realized with a thrill of fear. The emptiness, the dull listlessness; that had gone. The chuppers were alert now as they viewed the flickering TV image and listened to the excited news announcer. What does this mean to them? Nat wondered as he studied their emotion-laden, eager faces. It means, he decided, that they have a chance. This might be their opportunity.