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The Simulacra

Philip K. Dick

  The Simulacra

  Philip K. Dick

  Science Fiction Masterworks Volume 57


  Enter the SF Gateway

  In the last years of the twentieth century (as Wells might have put it), Gollancz, Britain’s oldest and most distinguished science fiction imprint, created the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series. Dedicated to re-publishing the English language’s finest works of SF and Fantasy, most of which were languishing out of print at the time, they were – and remain – landmark lists, consummately fulfilling the original mission statement:

  ‘SF MASTERWORKS is a library of the greatest SF ever written, chosen with the help of today’s leading SF writers and editors. These books show that genuinely innovative SF is as exciting today as when it was first written.’

  Now, as we move inexorably into the twenty-first century, we are delighted to be widening our remit even more. The realities of commercial publishing are such that vast troves of classic SF & Fantasy are almost certainly destined never again to see print. Until very recently, this meant that anyone interested in reading any of these books would have been confined to scouring second-hand bookshops. The advent of digital publishing has changed that paradigm for ever.

  The technology now exists to enable us to make available, for the first time, the entire backlists of an incredibly wide range of classic and modern SF and fantasy authors. Our plan is, at its simplest, to use this technology to build on the success of the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series and to go even further.

  Welcome to the new home of Science Fiction & Fantasy. Welcome to the most comprehensive electronic library of classic SFF titles ever assembled.

  Welcome to the SF Gateway.


  Title Page

  Gateway Introduction



  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  About the Author


  The Simulacra is a book that stretches beyond its capacity and tries to incorporate many disparate storylines into a cohesive plot structure. The Simulacra investigates some thought-bending concepts involving a cynical future but fails to demonstrate it's points effectively.

  In the futuristic America Dick creates in. The Simulacra, the population is divided into two groups. The Be's are the masses who live their dull existences with blind acceptance and are brainwashed by a condescending government. The Ge's are the elite who control the population through a matriarchal "puppet" government. The power structure of the country rests on the popularity (and deep love for) Nicole Thibodeaux, the first-lady who has remained in power for more than 40 years.

  The story follow a diverse group of characters whose adventures are seemingly unrelated except that they inhabit the same world. Nat Flieger is a record company executive who travels to northern California to record the greatest living musician, telepathic pianist Richard Kongrosian. The problem is Kongrosian is too much of a genius and reflects his low self-confidence and mental illness on his view of the world. Three characters, brothers Vince & Chic Strikerock and Ian Duncan are trying to get ahead in the world but can't seem to get a break. In a subplot that could only have been dreamed up by PKD, Hermann Goering is brought from the Nazi Germany of the past by first-lady Nicole (as she' affectionately known) in an attempt to influence the outcome of WWII. This is one of the more intriguing parts of The Simulacra but unfortunately is not well developed in the story.

  There's also a popular leader named Bertold Goltz who is able to see beyond the government's facade and also the limitations of time due to his possession of time travel equipment. When the government facade collapses and the strict societal boundaries are broken down, the lives of all the characters are affected. They all face difficult decisions involving planetary emigration, loyalty to each other and even establishing contact with reality.

  There are some radical notion of the world and the future presented in The Simulacra. Dick's portrayal of a matriarchal society draws from the deepest and most basic human emotions. Kongrosian's use of telepathy is the basis for the highest degree of creativity and artistic ability. Dick also addresses the role and need for government in people's lives. He suggests that underneath the surface, society creates a population that needs to be ignorant and apathetic in order to preserve it's own structure.


  The interoffice memo at Electronic Musical Enterprise frightened Nat Flieger and he did not know why. It dealt, after all, with a great opportunity, the famed Soviet pianist Richard Kongrosian, a psychokineticist who played Brahms and Schumann without manually approaching the keyboard, had been located at his summer home in Jenner, California. And, with luck, Kongrosian would be available for a series of recording sessions with EME. And yet -- Perhaps, Flieger reflected, it was the dark, wet forests of the extreme northern coastal region of California which repelled him; he liked the dry southlands near Tijuana, here where EME maintained its central offices. But Kongrosian, according to the memo, would not come out of his summer home; he had entered semi-retirement, possibly due to some unknown domestic situation, hinted to be a tragedy involving either his wife or his child. This had happened years ago, the memo implied.

  It was nine in the morning. Nat Flieger reflexively poured water in a cup and fed the living protoplasm incorporated into the Ampek F-a2 recording system which he kept in his office; the Ganymedean life form did not experience pain and had not yet objected to being made over into a portion of an electronic system ... neurologically it was primitive, but as an auditory receptor it was unexcelled.

  Water trickled through the membranes of the Ampek F-a2 and was gratefully absorbed; the conduits of the living system pulsed. I could take you along, Flieger decided. The F-a2 was portable and he preferred its curve to later, more sophisticated equipment. Flieger lit a delicado, walked to the window of his office to switch the blind to receive; warm Mexican sunlight burst in and he blinked. The F-a2 went into a state of extreme activity, then, utilizing the sunlight and the water, its metabolic processes stimulated. From habit Flieger watched it at work, but his mind was still on the memo.

  Once more he picked up the memo, squeezed it, and it instantly whined, ' ... this opportunity presents EME with an acute challenge, Nat. Kongrosian refuses to perform in public but we have a contract through our Berlin affiliate, Art-Cor, and legally we can make Kongrosian record for us ... at least if we can get him to stand still long enough. Eh, Nat?'

  'Yes,' Nat Flieger said, nodding absently, replying to Leo Dondoldo's voice.

  Why had the famed Soviet pianist acquired a summer home in northern California? That in itself was radical, frowned on by the central government in Warsaw. And if Kongrosian had learned to defy the ukases of the supreme Communist authority he could scarcely be expected to flinch from a showdown with EME; Kongrosian, now in his sixties, was a professional at ignoring the legal ramifications of contemporary social life, either in Communist lands or in the USEA. Like many artists, Kongrosian travelled his own way, somewhere in between the two overpowering social realities.

  A certain amount of hucksterism would have to be brought into such a pressing as this. The public had a short memory, as was well known; it would have to be forcibly reminded of Kongrosian's existence and musical cum Psionic talents. But EME's publicity department could readily handle it; after all, they had managed to sell many an unknown, and Kongrosia
n, for all his momentary obscurity, was scarcely that. But I wonder just how good Kongrosian is today, Nat Flieger reflected.

  The memo was trying to sell him on that, too. ' ... everybody knows that Kongrosian has up until quite recently played before private gatherings,' the memo declared fervently. 'For bigwigs in Poland and Cuba and before the Puerto Rican elite in New York. One year ago, in Birmingham, he appeared before fifty Negro millionaires for benefit purposes; the funds raised went to help with Afro Moslem lunar type colonization. I talked to a couple of modern composers who were present at that; they swore that Kongrosian hadn't lost any of his pizazz. Let's see ... that was in 2040. He was fifty-two, then. And of course he's always at the White House, playing for Nicole and that nonentity, der Alte.'

  We had better get the F-a2 up there to Jenner and get him down on oxytape, Nat Flieger decided. Because this may be our last chance; artistic Psis like Kongrosian have a reputation for dying early.

  He answered the memo. 'I'll handle it, Mr Dondoldo. I'll fly up to Jenner and try to negotiate with him personally.'

  That was his decision.

  'Whee,' the memo exulted. Nat Flieger felt sympathy for it.

  The buzzing, super-alert, obnoxiously persistent reporting machine said, 'Is it true, Dr Egon Superb, that you're going to try to enter your office today?'

  There should have been some way to keep reporting machines out of one's house, Dr Superb reflected. However, there was not. He said, 'Yes. As soon as I finish this breakfast which I am eating I will get into my wheel, drive to downtown San Francisco, park in a lot, walk directly to my office on Post Street, where as usual I will give psychotherapy to my first patient of the day. Despite the law, the so-called McPhearson Act.' He drank his coffee.

  'And you have the support -- '

  'The IAPP has fully endorsed my action,' Dr Superb said.

  In fact he had talked to the executive council of the International Association of Practising Psychoanalysts just ten minutes ago. 'I don't know why you picked me out to interview. Every member of the IAPP will be in his office this morning.' And there were over ten thousand members, scattered throughout the USEA, both in North America and in Europe.

  The reporting machine purred intimately, 'Who do you feel is responsible for the passage of the McPhearson Act and der Alte's willingness to sign it into law?'

  'You know who,' Dr Superb said, 'and so do I. Not the army and not Nicole and not even the NP. It's the great ethical pharmaceutical house, the cartel A.G. Chemie, in Berlin.' Everyone knew that; it was hardly news. The powerful German cartel had sold the world on the notion of drug-therapy for mental illness; there was a fortune to be made, there. And by corollary, psychoanalysts were quacks, on a par with orgone box and health food healers. It was not like the old days, the previous century, when psychoanalysts had had stature. Dr Superb sighed.

  'Does it cause you anguish,' the reporting machine said penetratingly, 'to abandon your profession under external compulsion? Hmm?'

  'Tell your audience,' Dr Superb said slowly, 'That we intend to keep on, law or no law. We can help, just as chemical therapy can help. In particular, characterological distortions -- where the entire life-history of the patient is involved.' He saw now that the reporting machine represented one of the major TV networks; an audience of perhaps fifty million sat in on this interchange. Dr Superb felt suddenly tongue-tied.

  After breakfast when he walked outside to his wheel he found a second reporting machine lying in wait for him.

  'Ladies and gentlemen, this is the last of the race of the Vienna School of analysts. Perhaps the once distinguished psychoanalyst Dr Superb will say a few words to us.

  'Doctor?' It rolled towards him, blocking his way. 'How do you feel, sir?'

  Dr Superb said, 'I feel lousy. Please get out of my way.'

  'Going to his office for the last time,' the machine declared, as he slipped away, 'Dr Superb wears the air of a condemned man and yet a man secretly proud in the knowledge that according to his own lights he's done his job. But time and tide have passed all the Dr Superbs by ... and only the future will know if this is a good thing. Like the practice of bloodletting, psychoanalysis has thrived and then waned and now a new therapy has taken its place.'

  Having boarded his wheel, Dr Superb started up the feeder-road and presently he was rolling along the autobahn towards San Francisco, still feeling lousy, dreading what he knew to be inevitable: the clash with the authorities which lay directly ahead.

  He was not a young man any more. There was too much spare flesh at his midsection; physically, he was too dumpy, almost middle-aged, to be a participant in these events. And he had a bald spot, which his bathroom mirror took pains to disclose to him each morning. Five years ago he had divorced his third wife, Livia, and had not remarried; his career was his life, his family. So what now? It was indisputable that, as the reporting machine had said, today he went to his office for the last time. Fifty million people in North America and Europe would watch, but would this get him a new vocation, a new transcendental goal to replace the old one? No, it would not.

  To cheer himself up he picked up the wheel's phone receiver and dialled a prayer.

  When he had parked and had walked to his Post Street office he found a small crowd of people and several more reporting machines and a handful of blue-uniformed San Francisco police waiting.

  'Morning,' Dr Superb said to them awkwardly as he ascended the stairs of the building, key in hand. The crowd parted for him. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, letting morning sunlight spill into the long corridor with its prints by Paul Klee and Kandinsky which he and Dr Buckleman had put up seven years ago when together they had decorated this rather old building.

  One of the reporting machines declared. 'The test will come, TV-viewers, when Dr Superb's first patient of the day arrives.'

  The police, at parade rest, waited silently.

  Pausing at the doorway before going on into his office, Dr Superb looked back at the people and then said, 'Nice day.

  For October, anyhow.' He tried to think of something more to say, some heroic phrase which would convey the nobility of his sentiments and position. But nothing came to mind.

  Perhaps, he decided, it was because there simply was no nobility involved; he was simply doing what he had done five days a week now for years on end and it did not involve any special courage to keep the routine alive one more time. Of course, he would pay for this donkey-like persistence by being arrested; intellectually he knew that, but his body, his lower nervous system, did not. Somatically, he continued along his path.

  Someone in the crowd, a woman, called, 'We're with you, doctor. Good luck.' Several others grinned at him, and a flimsy cheer went up, briefly. The police looked bored. Dr Superb shut the door and went on.

  In the front room, at her desk, his receptionist Amanda Conners raised her head and said, 'Good morning, doctor.'

  Her bright red hair glowed, tied by a ribbon, and from her low-cut mohair sweater, her breasts protruded divinely.

  'Morning,' Dr Superb said, pleased to see her here today, and so well-groomed at that. He handed her his coat, which she hung in the closet. 'Um, who's the first patient?' He lit a mild Florida cigar.

  Consulting her book, Amanda said, 'It's Mr Rugge, doctor. At nine o'clock. That'll give you time for a cup of coffee. I'll fix it.' She quickly started towards the coffee machine in the corner.

  'You know what's going to be happening here in a little while,' Superb said. 'Don't you?'

  'Oh yes. But the IAPP will provide bail, won't it?' She brought him the small paper cup, carrying it with shaking fingers.

  'I'm afraid this means the end of your job.'

  'Yes.' Mandy nodded, no longer smiling; her large eyes had become dark. 'I can't understand why der Alte didn't veto that bill; Nicole was against it and so I was sure he would, right up to the last moment. My god, the government's got that time travel equipment; surely they can go ahead and see the harm this'll ca
use -- the impoverishment to our society.'

  'Maybe they did look ahead.' And he thought, there will be no impoverishment.

  The office door opened. There stood the first patient of the day, Mr Gordon Rugge, pale with nervousness.

  'Ah, you came,' Dr Superb said. In fact, Rugge was early.

  'The bastards,' Rugge said. He was a tall, lean man, in his mid-thirties, well dressed; professionally he was a broker on Montgomery Street.

  Behind Rugge appeared two plainclothes members of the City Police. They fixed their gaze on Dr Superb, waiting.

  The reporting machines extended their hose-like receptors, sucking in data rapidly. For an interval no one moved or spoke.

  'Let's step into my inner office,' Dr Superb said to Mr Rugge. 'And pick up where we left off last Friday.'

  'You're under arrest,' one of the two plainclothes police said at once. He advanced and handed Dr Superb a folded writ. 'Come along.' Taking hold of Superb's arm he started to lead him towards the door; the other plainclothes man moved to the other side so that they had Superb between them. It was all done neatly, with no fuss.

  To Mr Rugge, Dr Superb said, 'I'm sorry, Gordon. Obviously there's nothing I can do by way of continuing your therapy.'

  'The rats want me to take drugs,' Rugge said bitterly. 'And they know that pills make me sick; they're toxic to my particular system.'

  'It is interesting,' one of the reporting machines was murmuring, for the benefit of its TV audience, 'to observe the loyalty of the analyst's patient. And yet, why not? This man has placed his faith in psychoanalysis possibly for years.'

  'For six years,' Rugge said to it. 'And I'd go six more, if necessary.'

  Amanda Conners began to cry silently into her handkerchief.

  As Dr Superb, escorted by both the plainclothes men and the uniformed San Francisco police, was led to the waiting patrol car, the crowd once again gave a meagre cheer of encouragement. But for the most part, Superb observed, they were older people. Remnants from earlier times when psychoanalysis was respected; like himself, part of another era entirely. He wished there were a few youths to be seen, but there were not.