The Simulacra

‘And perhaps, if we assist it through von Lessinger's system, we will enable it to do so.' His eyes were oblique, now.

‘You think so? And yet you're still willing to -- ‘

‘I think,' Emil Stark said, ‘that if the Third Reich is given the weapons it needs it will survive its victory by perhaps five years -- and very possibly not even that long. It's doomed by its very nature; there's absolutely no mechanism in the Nazi Party by which a successor to der Fuhrer can be produced. Germany will fragment, become a collection of small, nasty, quarrelling states as it was before Bismark. My government is convinced of this, Mrs Thibodeaux. Remember Hess's introduction of Hitler at one of the great Party rallies. "Hitler ist Deutschland." "Hitler is Germany." He was correct. Hence after Hitler what? The deluge. And Hitler knew it. As a matter of fact, there is some possibility that Hitler deliberately led his people to defeat. But that is a rather convoluted psychoanalytic theory. I personally find it too baroque for credence.'

Nicole said thoughtfully, ‘If Hermann Goering is brought out of his period, here to us, do you want to confront him and participate in the discussions?'

‘Yes,' Stark said. ‘In fact I insist on it.'

‘You -- ‘ She stared at him.

‘Insist?'

Stark nodded.

‘I suppose,' Nicole said, ‘that's because you're the spiritual embodiment of World Jewry or of some such mystic entity as that.'

‘Because I am an official,' Stark answered, ‘of the State of Israel, its highest official, in fact.' He was silent then.

‘Is it true,' Nicole asked, ‘that your people are about to launch a probe to Mars?'

‘Not a probe,' Stark said. ‘A transport. We will set up our first kibbutz there, one of these days. Mars is, so to speak, one great Negev. We will have orange trees growing some day.'

‘Lucky little people,' Nicole said, under her breath.

‘Pardon?' Stark cupped his ear; he had not heard.

‘You're lucky. You have aspirations. What we have in the USEA is -- ‘ She reflected. ‘Norms. Standards. It's very mundane, and I don't mean that as a pun having to do with space travel. Damn you, Stark -- you rattle me. I don't know why.'

‘You should visit Israel,' Stark said. ‘It would interest you. For instance -- ‘

‘For instance I could become converted,' Nicole said. ‘Change my name to Rebecca. Listen, Stark; I've talked long enough with you. I don't enjoy this Wolff Report business -- I think it's too risky, this idea of tinkering with the past on a grand scale, even if it might mean saving six or eight or even ten million innocent human lives. Look what happened when we tried to send assassins back to kill Adolf Hitler in the early days of his career; something or someone baulked us every time, and we tried seven times! I know I'm convinced -- that it was agents from the future, from our time or past our time. If one can play with von Lessinger's system, two can. The bomb in the beerhall, the bomb in the prop plane -- ‘

‘But this attempt,' Stark said, ‘will delight neo-Nazi elements. You will have their co-operation.'

Nicole said bitterly, ‘And that's supposed to ease my worry? You, of all people, should see what a malign harbinger that is.'

For an interval Stark said nothing; he smoked his Philippine handmade cigar and regarded her sombrely. Then he shrugged. ‘I will bow out. I think, Mrs Thibodeaux, at this point. Perhaps you are right. I'd like to ponder this and also confer with other members on my staff. I'll see you at the musicale tonight, here at the White house then. Will there be any Bach or Handel? I enjoy both composers.'

‘We'll have an all-Israeli night, just for you,' Nicole said.

‘Mendelssohn, Mahler, Bloch, Copeland; all right?' She smiled, and Emil Stark smiled back.

‘Is there a copy of General Wolff's report which I can take?' Stark asked.

‘No.' She shook her head. ‘It's Geheimnis -- top secret.'

Stark raised an eyebrow. And ceased smiling.

‘Even Kalbfleisch is not going to see it,' Nicole said.

She did not intend to budge in her position, and Emil Stark could undoubtedly perceive that. After all, the man was professionally astute. Going to her desk she seated herself. Waiting for him to go, expecting him to, she sat examining a folio of abstracts which had been placed for her attention by her secretary, Leonore. They were boring -- or were they? She read the top abstract once more, carefully.

It informed her that White House talent scout Janet Raimer had been unable to sign the great morbidly-neurotic concert pianist Richard Kongrosian for tonight after all, because Kongrosian had suddenly left his summer home at Jenner and gone voluntarily into a sanatorium for electron-shock therapy. And no one was supposed to know.

Goddam, Nicole said to herself, bitterly. Well, that puts an end to this evening; I might as well go to bed right after dinner. For Kongrosian was not only the foremost interpreter of Brahms and Chopin but was in addition an eccentric flashing, colossal wit.

Emil Stark puffed on his cigar, regarding her with curiosity.

‘Does the name "Richard Kongrosian" mean anything to you?' she demanded, looking up.

‘Certainly. For certain Romantic composers -- ‘

‘He's sick again. Mentally. For the hundredth time. Or didn't you know about that? Hadn't you heard the rumours?' Furiously she spun the abstract away from her; it slipped to the floor. ‘Sometimes I wish he would finally kill himself or die from a perforated colon or whatever it is he's really got. This week.'

‘Kongrosian is a major artist.' Stark nodded. ‘I can appreciate your concern. And in these chaotic times, with such elements as the Sons of Job parading in the streets, and all the vulgarity and mediocrity which seems ready to rise up and reassert itself -- ‘

‘Those creatures,' Nicole said quietly, ‘will not last long. So worry about something else.'

‘You believe you understand the situation, then. And have it firmly under control.' Stark permitted himself a brief, cold grimace.

‘Bertold Goltz is as Be as it's possible to be. Out, un and Be; he's all three. He's a joke. A clown.'

‘Like Goering, perhaps?'

Nicole said nothing. But her eyes flickered; Stark saw that, the sudden, temporary doubt. He grimaced again, this time involuntarily. A grimace of concern. Nicole shuddered.

5

In the little building at the back of Jalopy Jungle Number Three, Al Miller sat with his feet up on the desk, smoking an Upmann cigar and watching passers-by, the sidewalk and people and stores of downtown Reno, Nevada. Beyond the gleam of the new jalopies parked with flapping banners and streamers cascading from them he saw a shape waiting, hiding beneath the huge sign that spelled out LOONY LUKE.

And he was not the only person to see the shape; along the sidewalk came a man and woman with a small boy trotting ahead of them, and the boy, with an exclamation, hopped up and down, gesturing excitedly. ‘Hey, Dad, look! You know what it is? Look, it's the papoola.'

‘By golly,' the man said with a grin, ‘so it is. Look, Marion, there's one of those Martian creatures hiding there under the sign. What do you say we go over and chat with it?' He started in that direction, along with the boy. The woman, however, continued along the sidewalk.

‘Come on, Mom!' the boy urged.

In his office, Al Miller lightly touched the controls of the mechanism within his shirt. The papoola emerged from beneath the LOONY LUKE sign, and Al caused it to waddle on its six stubby legs towards the sidewalk, its round, silly hat slipping over one antenna, its eyes crossing and uncrossing as it made out the sight of the woman. The tropism being established, the papoola trudged after her, to the delight of the boy and his father.