The Simulacra

Right, Kongrosian thought. It's entirely too late for that.

If Judd had come up with something right away it would have been different. But now. And then he realized something.

The papoola could see him.

Or at least it could sense him with some organ or apperception, in some dimension or other. And -- it did not object to his smell.

‘Not at all,' the papoola was telling him. ‘You smell perfectly wonderful to me. I have no complaints at all, absolutely none.'

Kongrosian halting, said, ‘Would it be that way on Mars? They could see me -- or at least perceive me -- and I wouldn't offend them?'

‘There are no Theodoras Nitz commercials on Mars,' the papoola's thoughts came to him, forming in his eager mind.

‘You will gradually shed your contamination, there. In that pure, virgin environment. Enter the office, Mr Kongrosian, and speak to Mr Miller, our sales representative. He is eager to serve you. He exists to serve you.'

‘Yes,' Kongrosian said, and opened the door of the office.

There was, ahead of him, another customer waiting; the salesman was filling out a contract form. A thin, tall, balding customer who looked ill-at-ease and restless; he glanced towards Kongrosian and then moved a step away.

The smell had offended him.

‘Forgive me,' Kongrosian mumbled in apology.

‘Now, Mr Strikerock,' the salesman was saying to this previous customer, ‘if you'll sign here -- ‘ He turned the form around and held up a fountain pen.

The customer, in a spasm of muscular activity, signed, then stepped back, visibly shaking from the tension.

‘It's a big moment,' he said to Kongrosian. ‘When you decide to do this. I'd never have had the courage on my own, but my psychiatrist suggested it. Said it was the best alternative for me.'

‘Who's your psychiatrist?' Kongrosian said, naturally interested.

‘There's only one. These days. Dr Egon Superb.'

‘He's mine, too,' Kongrosian exclaimed. ‘A darn good man; I was just talking to him.'

The customer now studied Kongrosian's face intently.

He said then very painstakingly and slowly, ‘You're the man on the telephone. You called Dr Superb; I was in his office.'

The salesman for the jalopy jungle spoke up. ‘Mr Strikerock, if you want to step outside with me I'll go over the handling instructions with you, just to be on the safe side. And you can pick out whichever jalopy you want.' To Kongrosian he said, ‘I'll be able to help you in just a moment Please be patient, if you will.'

Kongrosian stammered, ‘C-can you see me?'

‘I can see everybody,' the salesman said. ‘Given tune enough.' And he left the office with Strikerock, then.

‘Calm yourself,' the papoola said, within Kongrosian's mind; it had remained in the office, evidently to keep him company. ‘All is well. Mr Miller will take good care of you and very, very sooooon.' It crooned to him, lulling him.

‘Alll is welllll,' it intoned.

Suddenly the customer, Mr Strikerock, re-entered the office. To Kongrosian he said, ‘Now I remember who you are! You're the famous concert pianist who's always playing for Nicole at the White House; you're Richard Kongrosian.'

‘Yes,' Kongrosian admitted, pleased to be recognized.

Just to be on the safe side, however, he moved carefully back from Strikerock, so as not to offend him. ‘I'm amazed,' he said, ‘that you can see me; just recently I've become invisible ... in fact that's what I was discussing with Egon Superb on the phone. Currently, I'm seeking rebirth. That's why I'm going to emigrate; there's no hope for me here on Earth, obviously.'

‘I know how you feel,' Strikerock said, nodding. ‘Just recently I quit my job; I've got no ties to anyone here, any more, not to my brother nor to -- ‘ He paused, his face dark.

‘To anyone. I'm leaving alone, with no one.'

‘Listen,' Kongrosian said, on impulse, ‘Why don't we emigrate together? Or -- does my phobic body odours offend you too much?'

Strikerock did not seem to know what he meant. ‘Emigrate together? You mean go in for a land-stake as partners?'

‘I have plenty of money,' Kongrosian said. ‘From my concert appearances; I can finance both of us easily.' Money was certainly the least of his worries. And maybe he could help this Mr Strikerock, who, after all, had just quit his job.

‘Maybe we could work something out,' Strikerock said thoughtfully, nodding slowly up and down. ‘It's going to be lonely as hell on Mars; we wouldn't have any neighbours except perhaps simulacra. And I've seen enough of them as it is to last me the rest of my life.'

The salesman, Mr Miller, returned to the office, looking a trifle perturbed.

‘We need only one jalopy between us,' Strikerock said to him. ‘Kongrosian and I are emigrating together, as partners.'

Shrugging philosophically, Mr Miller said, ‘I'll show you two a slightly larger model, then. A family-sized model.' He held the door of the office open and Kongrosian and Chic Strikerock stepped out on to the lot. ‘You two know each other?' he asked.

‘Not before now,' Strikerock said. ‘But we both have the same problem; we're invisible, here on Earth. So to speak.'

‘That's right,' Kongrosian put in. I've become totally invisible to the human eye; obviously it's time to emigrate.'

‘Yes, if that's the case I would say so,' Mr Miller agreed tartly.

The man on the telephone said, ‘My name is Merrill Judd, of A.G. Chemie. I'm sorry to bother you -- ‘

‘Go ahead,' Janet Raimer said, seating herself at her neat, small idiosyncratically-arranged desk. She nodded to her secretary, who at once shut the office door, cutting out the noises from the White House corridor outside. ‘You say this has to do with Richard Kongrosian.'

‘That's right.' On the screen, Merrill Judd's miniature face image nodded. ‘And for that reason it occurred to me to contact you, because of the close ties between Kongrosian and the White House. It seemed reasonable to me that you'd want to know. I tried, about half an hour ago, to visit Kongrosian at Franklin Aimes Neuropsychiatric Hospital in San Francisco. He was gone. The staff there couldn't locate him.'

‘I see,' Janet Raimer said.

‘Evidently he's quite ill. From what he said to me -- ‘

‘Yes,' Janet said, ‘he's quite ill. Do you have any other information for us? If not, I'd like to get started on this right away.'

The A.G. Chemie psych-chemist had no other information. He rang off, and Janet dialled an inside line, trying several White House stations until at last she managed to reach her nominal superior, Harold Slezak.

‘Kongrosian has left the hospital and vanished. God knows where he may have gone, possibly back to Jenner we should check that, of course. Frankly, I think the NP should be brought in; Kongrosian is vital.'

‘ "Vital," ‘ Slezak echoed, wrinkling his nose. ‘Well, let's say rather that we like him. We'd prefer not to have to make do without him. I'll obtain Nicole's permission to involve the police; I think you're right in your estimate of the situation.' Slezak , with no amities, rang off then. Janet hung up the phone.

She had done all she could do; it was now out of her hands.

The next thing she knew, an NP man was in her office, notebook in hand. Wilder Pembroke -- she had run into him many times when he held lesser positions -- seated himself across from her and began to take notes. ‘I've already checked with Franklin Aimes.' The Commissioner regarded her thoughtfully. ‘It seems that Kongrosian made a phone call to Dr Egon Superb -- you know who he is: the sole remaining psychoanalyst. He left not much after that. To your knowledge, was Kongrosian seeing Superb?'