The Simulacra

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 meagre 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 grey 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 throwback. ‘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 coasting about in the areas of conflict gathered data for him.

‘It's going to be a long fight,' Jim Planck said suddenly to Nat. He looked grey 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 grey 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 of their two faces. And then he realized that all the chuppers had become brighteyed 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.