In a post-WWIII world, a matriarch maintains rule against a popular uprising in this sci-fi classic by the author of The Man in the High Castle.
On a ravaged Earth, fate and circumstances bring together a disparate group of characters, including an android president, a First Lady who calls all the shots, fascist with dreams of a coup, a composer who plays his instrument with his mind, and the world’s last practicing therapist. And they all must contend with an underclass that is beginning to ask a few too many questions, aided by a man called Loony Luke and his very persuasive pet alien.Set in the mid 21st century and first published in 1964, The Simulacra combines time travel, psychotherapy, telekinesis, androids, and Neanderthal-like mutants to create a rousing, mind-bending story where there are conspiracies within conspiracies and nothing is ever what it seems.
|Publisher:||Houghton Mifflin Harcourt|
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About the Author
Over a writing career that spanned three decades, Philip K. Dick (1928-1982) published 36 science fiction novels and 121 short stories in which he explored the essence of what makes man human and the dangers of centralized power. Toward the end of his life, his work turned toward deeply personal, metaphysical questions concerning the nature of God. Eleven novels and short stories have been adapted to film; notably: Blade Runner (based on Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?), Total Recall, Minority Report, and A Scanner Darkly. The recipient of critical acclaim and numerous awards throughout his career, Dick was inducted into the SF Hall of Fame in 2005, and in 2007 the Library of America published a selection of his novels in three volumes. His work has been translated into 25 languages.
Read an Excerpt
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 psycho-kineticist 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 into 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 traveled 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 Kongrosian, 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 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 Practicing 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 psychoanlayst Dr. Superb will say a few words to us. Doctor?" It rolled toward 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 toward 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 dialed 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 lowcut 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 toward 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 cause--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 toward 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 meager 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.
At the police station the thin-faced man in the heavy overcoat, smoking the Bela King handmade Philippine cigar, glanced out the window with flat, cold eyes, consulted his watch, then paced restlessly.
He was just putting out his cigar and preparing to light another when he caught sight of the police car. At once he hurried outside onto the loading platform where the police were preparing to begin processing of the individual in question. "Doctor," he said. "I'm Wilder Pembroke. I'd like to talk to you a moment." He nodded to the police and they fell back, leaving Dr. Superb unhanded. "Come inside; I've got temporary use of a room on the second floor. This won't take long."