The Simulacra

‘We have it,' Al said shortly. A look of repugnance appeared on his face and then immediately was gone.

‘Fine,' Slezak said, prodding the two of them amiably ahead of him. Now may I ask what this creature you carry is?' He eyed the papoola with something less than active enthusiasm. ‘Is it alive?'

‘It's our totem animal,' Al said.

‘You mean a superstitious charm? A mascot?'

‘Exactly,' Al said. ‘With it we assuage anxiety.' He patted the papoola's head. ‘And it's part of our act; it dances while we play. You know, like a monkey.'

‘Well, I'll be darned,' Slezak said, his enthusiasm returning. ‘I see, now. Nicole will be delighted; she loves soft furry things.' He held a door open ahead of them.

And there she sat.

How could Luke have been so wrong? Ian Duncan thought. She was even lovelier than their glimpse of her at the lot, and in comparison with her TV image she was much more distinct. That was the cardinal difference, the fabulous authenticity of her appearance, its reality to the senses. The senses knew difference. Here she sat, in faded blue-cotton trousers, moccasins on her small feet, a carelessly-buttoned white shirt through which he could see -- or imagined he could see -- her tanned, smooth skin. How informal she was. Ian thought. Lacking in pretense or vain-glory. Her hair cut short, exposing her beautifully-formed neck and ears -- which fascinated him, captured his whole attention.

And, he thought, so darn young. She did not look even twenty. He wondered if by some miracle she remembered him. Or Al.

‘Nicole,' Slezak said, ‘these are the classical juggists.'

She glanced up, sideways; she had been reading TheTimes.

Now she smiled in greeting. ‘Good afternoon,' she said. ‘Did you two have lunch? We could serve you some Canadian bacon and butterhorns and coffee as a snack, if you want.' Her voice, oddly, did not seem to come from her; it materialized from the upper portion of the room, almost at the ceiling. Looking that way, Ian saw a series of speakers and he realized with a start that a glass or plastic barrier separated Nicole from them, a security measure to protect her. He felt disappointed and yet he understood why it was necessary. If anything happened to her'We ate, Mrs Thibodeaux,' Al said. ‘Thanks.' He, too, was glancing up at the speakers.

We ate Mrs Thibodeaux, Ian Duncan thought crazily.

Isn't it actually the other way around? Doesn't she, sitting here in her blue-cotton pants and shirt, doesn't she devour us? Strange thought ...

‘Look,' Nicole said to Harold Slezak. ‘They have one of those little papoolas with them -- won't that be fun?' To Al she said, ‘Could I see it? Let it come here.' She made a signal, and the transparent wall began to lift.

Al dropped the papoola and it scuttled towards Nicole, beneath the raised security barrier; it hopped up, and all at once Nicole held it in her strong, competent hands, gazing down at it intently as if peering deep inside it.

‘Heck,' she said, ‘it's not alive; it's just a toy.'

‘None survived,' Al explained. ‘As far as we know. But this is an authentic model, based on fossil remains found on Mars.' He stepped towards her. The barrier settled abruptly in place. Al was cut off from the papoola and he stood gaping foolishly, seemingly very upset. Then, as if by instinct, he touched the controls at his waist. The papoola slid from Nicole's hands and hopped clumsily to the floor. Nicole exclaimed in amazement, her eyes bright.

‘Do you want one, Nicky?' Harold Slezak asked her. ‘We can undoubtedly get you one, even several.'

‘What does it do?' Nicole said.

Slezak bubbled, ‘It dances, ma'am, when they play it has rhythm in its bones -- correct, Mr Duncan? Maybe you could play something now, a shorter piece, to show Mrs Thibodeaux.' He rubbed his ample hands together vigorously, nodding to Ian and Al.

‘S-sure,' Al said. He and Ian looked at each other. ‘Uh, we could play that little Schubert thing, that arrangement of "The Trout." Okay, Ian, get set.' He unbuttoned the protective case from his jug, lifted it out and held it awkwardly. Ian did the same. "This is Al Miller, here at first jug,' Al said.

‘And beside me is my partner, Ian Duncan, at second jug. Bringing you a concert of classical favourites, beginning with a little Schubert.'

Bump bump-bump BUMP-BUMP buump bump, babump-bump bup-bup-bup-bup-buppppp ...

Nicole said suddenly, ‘Now I remember where I saw you two before. Especially you, Mr Miller.'

Lowering their jugs they waited apprehensively.

‘At that jalopy jungle,' Nicole said. ‘When I went to pick up Richard. You talked to me; you asked me to leave Richard alone.'

‘Yes,' Al admitted.

‘Didn't you suppose I'd remember you?' Nicole asked. ‘For heaven's sake?'

Al said, ‘You see so many people -- ‘

‘But I have a good memory,' Nicole said. ‘Even for those who aren't too dreadfully important. You should have waited a little longer before coming here ... or perhaps you don't care.'

‘We care,' Al said. ‘We care a lot.'

She studied him for a long time. ‘Musicians are funny people,' she said aloud, at last. ‘They don't think like other people, I've discovered. They live in their own private fantasy world, like Richard does. He's the worst. But he's also the best, the finest of the White House musicians. Perhaps it has to go together; I don't know, I don't have any theory about it. Someone should do a definitive scientific study on the subject and settle it once and for all. Well, go ahead with your number.'

‘Okay,' Al said, glancing quickly at Ian.

‘You never told me you said that to her,' Ian said. ‘Asking her to leave Kongrosian alone -- you never mentioned that.'

‘I thought you knew; I thought you were there and heard it.' Al shrugged. ‘Anyhow, I didn't really believe she'd remember me.' Obviously it still seemed impossible to him; his face was a maze of disbelief.

They began to play once again.

Bump-bump-bump BUMP-BUMP buuump bump ...

Nicole giggled.

We've failed, Ian thought. God, the worst had come about; we're ludicrous. He ceased playing; Al continued on, his cheeks red and swelling with the effort of playing. He seemed unaware that Nicole was holding her hand up to conceal her laughter, her amusement at them and their efforts. Al played on, by himself, to the end of the piece, and then he, too, lowered his jug.

‘The papoola,' Nicole said, as evenly as possible. ‘It didn't dance. Not one little step -- why not?' And again she laughed, unable to stop herself.

Al said woodenly, ‘I -- don't have control of it; it's on remote right now.' To Ian he said, ‘Luke's got control of it, still.' He turned to the papoola and said in a loud voice, ‘You better dance.'

‘Oh really, this is wonderful,' Nicole said. ‘Look,' she said, to a woman who had just joined her; it was Janet Raimer -- Ian recognized her. ‘He has to beg it to dance. Dance, whatever your name is, papoola-thing from Mars, or rather imitation papoola-thing from Mars.' she prodded the papoola with the toe of her moccasin, trying to nudge it into life. ‘Come on, little synthetic ancient cute creature, all made out of wires. Please.' She prodded it a little harder.

The papoola leaped at her. It bit her.

Nicole screamed. A sharp pop sounded from behind her, and the papoola vanished into particles that swirled. A White House NP man stepped into sight, his rifle in his hands, peering at her and at the floating particles; his face was calm but his hands and the rifle quivered. Al began to curse to himself, chanting the words sing-song over and over again, the same three or four, unceasingly.