It's a great life, Chic thought. But perhaps, since yesterday, the firm had gone into receivership; it would not have surprised him -- and it probably would not have much saddened him, either. Although, of course, it would be a shame for Maury, and he liked Maury, despite their ubiquitous clashes. After all, a small firm was much like a small family. Everyone rubbed elbows in close, personal fashion and on many psychological levels. It was much more elaborately intimate than the depersonalized human relationship held by employees and employers of cartel-sized Operations.
Frankly, he preferred it. Preferred the closeness. To him there was something horrible about the detached and highly reified bureaucratic interpersonal activity in the halls of the mighty, within the geheimlich powerful corporations. The fact that Maury was a small-ltime operator actually appealed to him. It was a bit of the old world, the twentieth century still extant.
In the lot he parked, manually, beside Maury's elderly wheel, got out and walked, hands in his pockets, to the familiar front entrance.
The small cluttered office -- with its heaps of unopened unanswered mail, coffee cups, work manuals and crumpled invoices, tacked-up girly type calendars -- smelled dusty, as if its windows had never at any time been opened to fresh air and the light of day. And, at the far end, taking up most of the available space, he saw four simulacra seated in silence, a group: one in adult male form, its female mate and two children. This was a major item of the firm's catalogue; this was a famnexdo.
The adult male style simulacrum rose and greeted him with civility. ‘Good morning, Mr Strikerock.'
‘Maury arrived yet?' He glanced around.
‘In a limited sense, yes,' the adult male simulacrum answered. ‘He's down the street getting his morning cup of coffee and doughnut.'
‘Jolly,' Chic said, and removed his coat. ‘Well, are you folks all ready to go to Mars?' he asked the simulacra. He hung up his coat.
‘Yes, Mr Strikerock,' the adult female said, nodding.
‘And we're cheerful, too. You can count on that.' Obligingly she smiled in a neighbourly way at him. ‘It will be a relief to leave Earth with its repressive legislation. We were listening OH the FM to the news about the McPhearson Act.'
‘We consider it dreadful,' the adult male said.
‘I have to agree with you,' Chic said. ‘But what can one do?' He looked around for the mail; as always it was lost somewhere in the mass of clutter.
‘One can emigrate,' the adult male simulacrum pointed out.
‘Um,' Chic said absently. He had found an unexpected heap of recent-looking bills from parts suppliers; with a feeling of gloom and even terror he began to sort through them. Had Maury seen these? Probably. Seen them and then pushed them away immediately, out of sight. Frauenzimmer Associates functioned better if it was not reminded of such facts of life. Like a regressed neurotic, it had to hide several aspects of reality from its percept system in order to function at all. This was hardly ideal, but what really was the alternative? To be realistic would be to give up, to die. Illusion, of an infantile nature was essential for the tiny firm's survival, or at least so it seemed to him and Maury. In any case both of them had adopted this attitude. Their simulacra -- the adult ones -- disapproved of this; their cold, logical appraisal of reality stood in sharp contrast, and Chic always felt a little naked, a little embarrassed, before the simulacra; he knew he should set a better example for them.
‘If you bought a jalopy and emigrated to Mars,' the adult male said, ‘We could be the famnexdo for you.'
‘I wouldn't need any family next-door,' Chic said, ‘if I emigrated to Mars. I'd go to get away from people.
‘We'd make a very good family next-door to you,' the female said.
‘Look,' Chic said, ‘you don't have to lecture me about your virtues. I know more than you do yourselves.' And for good reason. Their presumption, their earnest sincerity, amused but also irked him. As next-door neighbours this group of sims would be something of a nuisance, he reflected. Still, that was what emigrants wanted, in fact needed, out in the sparsely-populated colonial regions. He could appreciate that; after all, it was Frauenzimmer Associates' business to understand.
A man, when he emigrated, could buy neighbours, buy the simulated presence of life, the sound and motion of human activity -- or at least its mechanical near-substitute to bolster his morale in the new environment of unfamiliar stimuli and perhaps, god forbid, no stimuli at all. And in addition to this primary psychological gain there was a practical secondary advantage as well. The famnexdo group of simulacra developed the parcel of land, tilled it and planted it, irrigated it, made it fertile, highly productive. And the yield went to the human settler because the famnexdo group, legally speaking, occupied the peripheral portions of his land. The famnexdo were actually not next-door at all; they were part of their owner's entourage. Communication with them was in essence a circular dialogue with oneself; the famnexdo, it they were functioning properly, picked up the covert hopes and dreams of the settler and detailed them back in an articulated fashion. Therapeutically, this was helpful, although from a cultural standpoint it was a trifle sterile.
The adult male said respectfully, ‘Here is Mr Frauenzimmer now.'
Glancing up, Chic saw the office door swing slowly open; carefully carrying his cup of coffee and doughnut, Maury appeared.
‘Listen, buddy,' Maury said in a hoarse voice. He was a short, round, perspiring man, like a reflection in a bad mirror. His legs had an inferior look, as if they just barely managed to support him; he teetered as he moved forward.
‘I'm sorry,' he said, ‘but I guess I got to fire you.'
Chic stared at him.
‘I can't make it any longer,' Maury said. Gripping the handle of his coffee cup with his blunt, work-stained fingers he searched for a place to set it and the doughnut down, among the papers and manuals littering the surface of the desk.
‘I'll be darned,' Chic said. In his ears his voice sounded weak.
‘You knew it was coming.' Maury's voice had become a bleak croak. ‘We both did. What else can I do? We haven't turned over a major order in weeks. I'm not blaming you. Understand that. Look at this famnexdo group hanging around here -- just hanging. We should be able to unload them long before now.' Getting out his immense Irish linen handkerchief, Maury mopped his forehead. ‘I'm sorry Chic.' He eyed his employee anxiously.
The adult male simulacrum said, ‘This is indeed a distressing exchange.'
‘I feel the same way,' its mate added.
Glaring at them, Maury spluttered, ‘Tough, I mean, mind your own darn business. Who asked for your artificial, contrived opinion?'
Chic murmured, ‘Leave them alone.' He was stunned at the news; emotionally, he had been caught totally by surprise, despite his intellectual forebodings.
‘If Mr Strikerock goes,' the adult male simulacrum stated, ‘we go with him.'
Sourly, Maury grunted at the simulacra, ‘Aw, what the hell, you're just a bunch of artefacts. Pipe down while we thrash this out. We have enough troubles without you getting involved.' Seating himself at the desk he opened the morning Chronicle.
‘The whole world's coming to an end. It's not us, Chic, not just Frauenzimmer Associates. Listen to this item in today's paper: "The body of Orley Short, maintenance man, was discovered today at the bottom of a six-foot vat of gradually hardening chocolate at the St Louis Candy Company."‘ He raised his head. ‘You get that "Gradually hardening chocolate" -- that's it. That's the way we live. I'll continue. "Short, 53, failed to come home from work yesterday, and -- "‘
‘Okay,' Chic interrupted. ‘I understand what you're trying to say. This is one of those times.'