The Simulacra

And I know why. It has to do with Nicole. Maybe I'm like that man on your phone; only I am not in love with her, with Nicole -- I'm terrified of her and that's why I'm scared of Julie, I guess in fact of all women. Does this make any sense, doctor?'

‘The image,' Superb said, ‘of the Bad Mother. Overpowering and cosmic.'

‘It's because of weak-fibred men like me that Nicole can rule,' Chic said. ‘I'm the reason why we've got matriarchal society -- I'm like a six-year-old kid.'

‘You're not unique. You realize that. In fact, it's the national neurosis. The psychological fault of our times.'

Chic Strikerock said slowly, deliberately, ‘If I joined Bertold Goltz and the Sons of Job I could be a real man.

‘There's something else you could do, if you want to break free of the mother, of Nicole. Emigrate. To Mars. Buy one of those flivvers, those Loony Luke jalopies, the next time one of his peripatetic jalopy jungles lands close enough for you to go aboard.'

Haltingly, with a strange expression, Chic Strikerock said, ‘My god. I never really seriously thought of that. It always seemed just -- frantic. Unreasonable. Done neurotically, in desperation.'

‘It would be better than joining Goltz, anyhow.'

‘What about Julie?'

Superb shrugged. ‘Take her along; why not? Is she good in bed?'

‘Please.'

‘Sorry.'

Chic Strikerock said, ‘I wonder what Loony Luke himself is like.'

‘A real bastard, I hear.'

‘Maybe that's good; maybe that's what I want. Need.'

Dr Superb said, ‘Time's up for today. I hope I helped you, at least a little. Next time -- ‘

‘You helped; you gave me a very good idea. Or rather, you ratified a very good idea inside me. Maybe I will emigrate to Mars; hell, why should I wait until Maury Frauenzimmer fires me? I'll quit right away and go locate a Loony Luke jalopy jungle. And if Julie wants to come, fine; and if not, also fine. She is good in bed, doctor, but not uniquely so. Not so good she can't be replaced. So -- ‘ Chic Strikerock rose from his chair. ‘I may not be seeing you again, doctor.' He held out his hand and they shook hands.

‘Drop me a postcard when you get to Mars,' Dr Superb said.

Nodding, Strikerock said, ‘I'll do that. Do you think you'll still be doing business here at this address?'

‘I don't know,' Dr Superb said. Perhaps, he thought, you are my last patient. The more I think about it the more I'm sure you're the one for whom I've been waiting. But only time would tell.

They walked together to the door of the office.

‘Anyhow,' Chic Strikerock said, ‘I'm not as bad off as that guy you talked to on the phone. Who was that? I think I've seen him somewhere before, or a picture of him. Maybe on TV; yes, that was it. He's some sort of a performer. You know, when you were talking to him I felt a sort of affinity towards him. As if we were both struggling together, both of us in deep, serious trouble and trying to get out some way, any way.'

‘Ummm,' Dr Superb said as he opened the door.

‘You're not going to tell me who he is; you're not allowed to. I understand. Well I wish him luck, whoever he is.'

‘He needs it,' Superb said. ‘Whoever he is. At this point.'

Caustically, Molly Dondoldo said, ‘How'd it feel, Nat, to be communicating with the great man himself? Because, of course, we all do agree; Bertold Goltz is the great man of our times.'

Nat Flieger shrugged. The auto-cab had now left the town of Jenner and was climbing a long grade, slower and slower, moving inland towards what appeared to be the rain forest proper, a huge damp mesa which seemed almost like something remaining from the Jurassic Period. A swamp of dinosaurs. Nat thought to himself. Not for humans.

‘I think Goltz made a convert,' Jim Planck said, with a wink at Molly. He grinned at Nat.

Rain, fine and light, had begun to descend silently; the windshield wipers of the auto-cab came on, throbbing in a loud rhythm that was both irregular and annoying. The auto-cab now turned from the main road -- which was at least paved -- on to a side road of red rock; the cab bumped along, pitching and wallowing; inside its mechanism gears changed as the cab creakily adjusted to the new conditions.

It did not sound to Nat as if the auto-cab was doing a very satisfactory job of things. He had the feeling that it was going to stop any moment now, would give up the job and quit.

‘You know what I expect to see along here?' Molly said, gazing up at the dense foliage on both sides of the narrow, ascending road. ‘I expect to see around the next bend a Loony Luke jalopy jungle, sitting there, parked waiting for us.'

‘Just for us?' Jim Planck asked. ‘Why just for us?'

‘Because,' Molly said, ‘we're about washed up.'

Around the next bend of the road there was a structure; Nat peered at it, wondering what it was. Old, shabby, abandoned-looking ... he realized all at once that he was seeing a gas station. Left over from the days of internal combustion engine autos. He was thunderstruck.

‘An antique,' Molly said. ‘A relic! How bizarre. Maybe we ought to stop and look at it. It's historical, like an old fort or an old adobe mill; please, Nat, stop the damn cab.'

Nat punched buttons on the dashboard and the auto-cab, groaning in an anguish of friction and malconceived selfcues, came to a stop before the gasoline station.

Warily, Jim Planck opened the door and stepped out. He had his Japanese-made camera with him and now he snapped it open, squinting in the dull, fog-shrouded light.

The mild rain made his face shiny; water dripped down the lenses of his glasses and he removed them, stuffing them into his coat pocket. ‘I'll take a couple shots of it,' he said to Nat and Molly.

In a soft voice Molly said to Nat, ‘There's someone in there. Don't move or say anything. He's watching us.'

Getting out of the cab Nat crossed the red rock road to the gasoline station. He saw the man inside rise and come to meet him; the door of the building swung open. A hunched man with a huge deformed jaw and teeth faced him; the man gestured and began to talk.

‘What's he saying?' Jim said to Nat, looking frightened.

The man, elderly, mumbled, ‘Hig, hig, hig.' Or so it sounded to Nat. The man was trying to tell him something and yet he could not. He continued to try. And Nat, at last, thought he made out real words; he strained to understand, cupping his ear and waiting while the great-jawed old man mumbled on, anxiously, still gesturing.

‘He's asking,' Molly said to Nat, ‘if we brought his mail.'

Jim said, ‘It must be a custom around here, for cars coming up this road to bring the mail from town.' To the elderly man with the massive jaw Jim said, ‘Sorry, we didn't know. We don't have your mail.'

Nodding, the man ceased his noises; he seemed resigned.

He clearly understood.

‘We're looking for Richard Kongrosian,' Nat said to the elderly man. ‘Are we on the right road?'

The man peered at him sideways, slyly. ‘Got any vegetables?'

‘Vegetables!' Nat said.

‘I can eat vegetables pretty good.' The elderly man winked at him and held out his hand, waiting, hoping.

‘Sorry,' Nat said, disconcerted. He turned to Jim and Molly. ‘Vegetables,' he said. ‘Could you understand him? That's what he said, isn't it?'

The elderly man mumbled, ‘I can't eat meat. Wait.' He fumbled in his coat pocket and brought out a printed card which he passed to Nat. The card, dirty and shabby, could barely be read; Nat held it up to the light, squinting as he sought to make out the printed lettering.

FEED ME AND I WILL TELL YOU

ANYTHING YOU WANT TO HEAR.

COURTESY OF THE CHUPPERS ASSN.

‘I am a chupper,' the elderly man said, and took the card suddenly back, returning it to his coat pocket.

‘Let's get out of here,' Molly said to Nat, quietly.

A radiation-spawned race, Nat thought. The chuppers of Northern California. Their enclave lay here. He wondered how many of them there were. Ten? A thousand? And this was where Richard Kongrosian had chosen to live.