Read Online The Simulacra by Philip K. Dick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Philip K. Dick
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try.”
Speechless, Ian Duncan gaped at him.
“I mean it,” Al said, nodding.
With gratitude, Ian whispered, “God bless you, Al.”
Somberly, Al Miller puffed on his pipe.
Ahead of Chic Strikerock the small factory at which he worked grew to its full but meager proportion; this was as large as it was going to get—this hatbox-like structure—of late a light green, modern enough if one’s standards were not too critical. Frauenzimmer Associates. Soon he would be in his office, at work, and fussing with the blinds of the window in an effort to restrict the bright morning sun. Fussing, too, at Miss Greta Trupe, the elderly lady secretary who served both him and Maury.
It’s a great life, Chic thought. But perhaps, since yesterday, the firm had gone into receivership; it would not have surprised him—and it probably would not have much saddened him, either. Although, of course, it would be a shame for Maury, and he liked Maury, despite their ubiquitous clashes. After all, a small firm was much like a small family. Everyone rubbed elbows in close, personal fashion and on many psychological levels. It was much more elaborately intimate than the depersonalized human relationship held by employees and employers of cartel-sized operations.
Frankly, he preferred it. Preferred the closeness. To him there was something horrible about the detached and highly reified bureaucratic interpersonal activity in the halls of the mighty, within the
geheimlich
powerful corporations. The fact that Maury was a smalltime operator actually appealed to him. It was a bit of the old world, the twentieth century, still extant.
In the lot he parked, manually, beside Maury’s elderly wheel, got out and walked, hands in his pockets, to the familiar front entrance.
The small cluttered office—with its heaps of unopened unanswered mail, coffee cups, work manuals and crumpled invoices, tacked-up girly type calendars—smelled dusty, as if its windows had never at any time been opened to fresh air and the light of day. And, at the far end, taking up most of the available space, he saw four simulacra seated in silence, a group: one in adult male form, its female mate and two children. This was a major item of the firm’s catalog; this was a famnexdo.
The adult male style simulacrum rose and greeted him with civility. “Good morning, Mr. Strikerock.”
“Maury arrived yet?” He glanced around.
“In a limited sense, yes,” the adult male simulacrum answered. “He’s down the street getting his morning cup of coffee and doughnut.”
“Jolly,” Chic said, and removed his coat. “Well, are you folks all ready to go to Mars?” he asked the simulacra. He hung up his coat.
“Yes, Mr. Strikerock,” the adult female said, nodding. “And we’re cheerful, too. You can count on that.” Obligingly, she smiled in a neighborly way at him. “It will be a relief to leave Earth with its repressive legislation. We were listening on the FM to the news about the McPhearson Act.”
“We consider it dreadful,” the adult male said.
“I have to agree with you,” Chic said. “But what can one do?” He looked around for the mail; as always it was lost somewhere in the mass of clutter.
“One can emigrate,” the adult male simulacrum pointed out.
“Um,” Chic said absently. He had found an unexpected heap of recent-looking bills from parts suppliers; with a feeling of gloom and even terror he began to sort through them. Had Maury seen these? Probably. Seen them and then pushed them away immediately, out of sight. Frauenzimmer Associates functioned better if it was not reminded of such facts of life. Like a regressed neurotic, it had to hide several aspects of reality from its percept system in order to function at all. This was hardly ideal, but what really was the alternative? To be realistic would be to give up, to die. Illusion, of an infantile nature, was essential for the tiny firm’s survival, or at least so it seemed to him and
Speechless, Ian Duncan gaped at him.
“I mean it,” Al said, nodding.
With gratitude, Ian whispered, “God bless you, Al.”
Somberly, Al Miller puffed on his pipe.
Ahead of Chic Strikerock the small factory at which he worked grew to its full but meager proportion; this was as large as it was going to get—this hatbox-like structure—of late a light green, modern enough if one’s standards were not too critical. Frauenzimmer Associates. Soon he would be in his office, at work, and fussing with the blinds of the window in an effort to restrict the bright morning sun. Fussing, too, at Miss Greta Trupe, the elderly lady secretary who served both him and Maury.
It’s a great life, Chic thought. But perhaps, since yesterday, the firm had gone into receivership; it would not have surprised him—and it probably would not have much saddened him, either. Although, of course, it would be a shame for Maury, and he liked Maury, despite their ubiquitous clashes. After all, a small firm was much like a small family. Everyone rubbed elbows in close, personal fashion and on many psychological levels. It was much more elaborately intimate than the depersonalized human relationship held by employees and employers of cartel-sized operations.
Frankly, he preferred it. Preferred the closeness. To him there was something horrible about the detached and highly reified bureaucratic interpersonal activity in the halls of the mighty, within the
geheimlich
powerful corporations. The fact that Maury was a smalltime operator actually appealed to him. It was a bit of the old world, the twentieth century, still extant.
In the lot he parked, manually, beside Maury’s elderly wheel, got out and walked, hands in his pockets, to the familiar front entrance.
The small cluttered office—with its heaps of unopened unanswered mail, coffee cups, work manuals and crumpled invoices, tacked-up girly type calendars—smelled dusty, as if its windows had never at any time been opened to fresh air and the light of day. And, at the far end, taking up most of the available space, he saw four simulacra seated in silence, a group: one in adult male form, its female mate and two children. This was a major item of the firm’s catalog; this was a famnexdo.
The adult male style simulacrum rose and greeted him with civility. “Good morning, Mr. Strikerock.”
“Maury arrived yet?” He glanced around.
“In a limited sense, yes,” the adult male simulacrum answered. “He’s down the street getting his morning cup of coffee and doughnut.”
“Jolly,” Chic said, and removed his coat. “Well, are you folks all ready to go to Mars?” he asked the simulacra. He hung up his coat.
“Yes, Mr. Strikerock,” the adult female said, nodding. “And we’re cheerful, too. You can count on that.” Obligingly, she smiled in a neighborly way at him. “It will be a relief to leave Earth with its repressive legislation. We were listening on the FM to the news about the McPhearson Act.”
“We consider it dreadful,” the adult male said.
“I have to agree with you,” Chic said. “But what can one do?” He looked around for the mail; as always it was lost somewhere in the mass of clutter.
“One can emigrate,” the adult male simulacrum pointed out.
“Um,” Chic said absently. He had found an unexpected heap of recent-looking bills from parts suppliers; with a feeling of gloom and even terror he began to sort through them. Had Maury seen these? Probably. Seen them and then pushed them away immediately, out of sight. Frauenzimmer Associates functioned better if it was not reminded of such facts of life. Like a regressed neurotic, it had to hide several aspects of reality from its percept system in order to function at all. This was hardly ideal, but what really was the alternative? To be realistic would be to give up, to die. Illusion, of an infantile nature, was essential for the tiny firm’s survival, or at least so it seemed to him and
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