This was distinctly not one of the better evenings.
'I'll tell you what,' Janet Raimer said archily. 'If I can't do better than this, than the Moonrakers -- ' She gestured at the folk singers, who now were glumly packing up their instruments. 'I'll arrange a programme entirely of the best of Ted Nitz' commercials.' She smiled, showing her stainless steel teeth. Nicole winced. Janet, sometimes, was just too much the witty professional woman. Just too amusing and poised, and wholly identified with this powerful office; Janet could be sure of herself any time and this bothered Nicole. There was no way to get at Janet Raimer.
No wonder every aspect of life had become for Janet a kind of game.
On the raised dais, a new group had replaced the defunct folk singers. Nicole examined her programme. This was the Las Vegas Modern String Quartet; they would in a moment, be playing a Haydn work, despite their august title. Maybe I'll go see Garth now, Nicole decided. Haydn seemed to her, with all the problems she had to cope with, a bit too nice. A bit too ornamental, not substantial enough.
When we get Goering here, she thought, we can bring in a brass band, street style, to play Bavarian military marches. I must remember to tell Janet that, she told herself. Or we could have some Wagner. Didn't the Nazis dote on Wagner? Yes, she was sure of that. She had been studying history books about the period of the Third Reich; Dr Goebbels, in his diaries, had mentioned the reverence felt by high Nazi officials at a performance of The Ring.
Or perhaps it was Meistersinger.
We could have the brass band play arrangements of themes from Parsifal, she decided with a secret spasm of amusement. In march tempo, of course. A sort of proctological version, just right for the Ubermenschen of the Third Reich.
Within twenty-four hours the von Lessinger technicians would have the conduits to 1944 completed. It was weird but perhaps by tomorrow at this time Hermann Goering would be here in this era, plucked from his own time period by the most wily of the White House negotiators, skinny, small, elder Major Tucker Behrans. Practically a der Alte himself, except that Army Major Behrans was alive and genuine and breathing, not a mere simulacrum. At least not as far as she knew. Although sometimes it seemed that way, seemed to her that she existed in the centre of a milieu comprised entirely of artificial creations of the cartel system, of A.G. Chemie conspiring with Karp u. Sohnen Werke in particular. Their commitment to ersatz reality ... it was frankly too much for her. She had, over the years of contact with it, developed a sense of pure dread.
'I have an appointment,' she said to Janet. 'Excuse me,' she rose, left the Camellia Room; two NP men fell in behind her as she made her way down the corridor to the Easter Lily Alcove where Garth McRae waited.
In the alcove Garth sat with another man whom she recognized -- by his uniform -- as a top official of the higher police. She did not know him. Evidently he had arrived with Garth; the two of them were consulting in low tones, unaware of her arrival.
'Have you informed Karp und Sohnen?' she asked Garth.
At once both men were on their feet, respectful and attentive. 'Oh yes, Mrs Thibodeaux,' Garth answered. 'At least,' he added quickly, 'I informed Anton Karp that the Rudi Kalbfleisch simulacrum is going to be discontinued soon. I -- haven't informed them that the next simulacrum will be obtained through other channels.'
'Why not?' Nicole asked.
Glancing at his companion, Garth said, 'Mrs Thibodeaux, this man is Wilder Pembroke, new Commissioner of the NP. He's warned me that Karp und Sohnen have held a closed, secret meeting of their top executive personnel and have discussed the possibility that the contract for the next der Alte will be let somewhere else.' Garth explained, 'The NP of course has a number of individuals employed at Karp -- needless to say.'
Nicole said to the police official, 'What will Karp do?'
'The Werke will make public the fact that the der Altes are constructs, that the last living der Alte held office fifty years ago.' Pembroke cleared his throat noisily: he appeared singularly ill at ease. 'This is a clear violation of basic law, of course. Such knowledge constitutes a state secret and cannot be brought before the Bes. Both Anton Karp and his father Felix Karp are perfectly aware of that; they discussed these legal aspects at their conference. They know that they -- and anyone else at policy level at the Werke -- would be instantly liable to prosecution.'
'And yet they'd go ahead,' Nicole said, and thought to herself, So we're correct; the Karp people are already too strong. Already possess far too much autonomy. And they won't abandon this without a fight.'
'Individuals high in cartel circles are peculiarly stiffnecked,' Pembroke said. 'The last of the true Prussians, perhaps. The Attorney General has asked that you contact him before going ahead in this matter; he will be glad to outline the direction of the state's litigation against the Werke, and he's anxious to discuss several sensitive aspects with you. By and large, however, the Attorney General is prepared to move in at any time. As soon as he receives notification. However -- ' Pembroke glanced at her sideways.
'I wonder. It's the summation of all data reaching me that the cartel system as a whole is simply too enormous, too sturdily constructed and interlocked, to be brought down. That, instead of direct action against it, some sort of quid pro quo should be brought about. Such appears to me to be much more desirable. And feasible.'
Nicole said, 'But that's up to me.'
Both Garth McRae and Pembroke nodded in unison.
'I will discuss this with Maxwell Jamison,' she said finally.
'Max will have a relatively clear idea as to how this information about the der Alte will be received by the Bes, by the uniformed public. I have no idea how they would react. Would they riot? Would they find it amusing? Personally I find it amusing. I'm sure it would appear that way to me if I were, say, a rather minor employee of some cartel or government agency. Do you agree?'
Neither man smiled; both remained tense and sombre.
'In my opinion, if I may say so,' Pembroke said, 'release of this information will topple the entire structure of our society.'
'But it is amusing,' Nicole persisted. 'Isn't it? Rudi is a dummy, an ersatz creation of the cartel system, and yet he's the highest elected official in the USEA. These people voted for him and for the der Alte before him and so on back for fifty years -- I'm sorry, but it has to be funny; there's no other way to look at it.' She was laughing now; the idea of not knowing this Geheimnis, this state secret and suddenly finding it out, was too much for her. 'I think I'll go ahead,' she told Garth. 'Yes, I've made up my mind; contact the Karp Werke tomorrow morning. Talk directly with both Anton and Felix. Tell them, among other things, that we will arrest them instantly if they try to betray us to the Bes. Tell them that the NP is ready to move on them.'
'Yes, Mrs Thibodeaux,' Garth said, with gloom.
'And don't take it so hard,' Nicole said. 'If the Karps do go ahead and release the Geheimnis, we'll still survive -- I think you're wrong: it won't mean the end of our status quo at all.'
Garth said, 'Mrs Thibodeaux, if the Karps release this information, no matter how the Bes react, there can never be another der Alte. And legally speaking, you hold your position of authority only because you're the wife. It's hard to keep that in mind, because -- ' Garth hesitated.
'Say it,' Nicole said.
'Because it's clear to everyone, Bes and Ges alike, that you are the ultimate authority in the establishment. And it's essential to maintain the myth that somehow, indirectly at least, you were placed here by the people, by mass public vote.'
There was silence.
Pembroke said finally, 'Perhaps the NP should move in on the Karps before they can put out their white paper. Thereby we'd cut them off from the organs of communication.'
'Even under arrest,' Nicole said, 'the Karps would manage to gain access to at least one of the media. Better face that fact.'
'But their reputation, if they're under arrest -- '
'The only solution,' Nicole said thoughtfully, half
to herself, 'would be to assassinate those officers of the Werke who attended the policy meeting. In other words, all the Ges of the cartel, no matter how many there are. Even if the numbers ran up into the hundreds.' In other words, she said to herself, a purge. Such as one generally only witnessed in times of revolution.
She shrank from the idea.
'Nacht und Nebel,'
Pembroke murmured.
'What?' Nicole said.
'The Nazi term for the invisible agents of the government who deal in murder.' He faced Nicole calmly. 'Night and fog. They were the Einsatzgruppen. Monsters. Of course our police, the NP has nothing like that. I'm sorry; you'll have to act through the military. Not through us.'
'I was joking,' Nicole said.
Both men studied her.
'There are no more purges,' Nicole said. 'There haven't been any since World War Three. You know that. We're too modern, too civilized, for massacres now.'
Pembroke, frowning, his lips twitching nervously, said, 'Mrs Thibodeaux, when the technicians from the von Lessinger Institute bring Goering to our period, perhaps you can arrange for an Einsatzgruppe to be brought, too. It could assume responsibility vis-à-vis the Karps and then return to the Age of Barbarism.'
She stared at him open-mouthed.
'I'm serious,' Pembroke said, stammering slightly. 'It certainly would be better -- for us at least -- than allowing the Karps to make public the information they possess. That's the worst alternative of all.'
'I agree,' Garth McRae said.
'It's insane,' Nicole said.
Garth McRae said, 'Is it? Through von Lessinger's principle we have access to trained assassins, and, as you pointed out, in our era no such professionals exist. I doubt if it would mean the destruction of scores or hundreds of individuals. I'd guess it could be limited to the board of directors, the executive vice-presidents of the Werke. Possibly as few as eight men.'
'And,' Pembroke pointed out eagerly, 'these eight men, these top officers at Karp, are de facto criminals; they've deliberately met and conspired against the legal government. They're on a par with the Sons of Job. With that Bertold Goltz. Even though they wear black bow ties every evening and drink vintage wine and don't squabble in the gutters and streets.'
'May I say,' Nicole said drily, 'that all of us are de facto criminals. Because this government -- as you pointed out is based on a fraud. And of the most primary magnitude.'
'But it's the legal government,' Garth said. 'Fraud or not. And the so-called "fraud" is in the best interests of the people. We're not doing it to exploit anyone -- as the cartel system does. We're not out to engorge ourselves at somebody else's expense.'
At least, Nicole thought, that's what we tell ourselves.
Pembroke said respectfully, 'Having talked just now to the Attorney General I know how he feels about the rising power of the cartels. Epstein feels they must be cut down. It's essential!'
'Perhaps,' Nicole said, 'you have a trifle too much respect for the cartels. I don't. And -- perhaps we should wait a day or so until Hermann Goering is with us and we can ask for an opinion from him.'
Now the two men were staring at her open-mouthed.
'I'm not serious,' she said. Or was she? She did not know, herself. 'After all,' she said, 'Goering founded the Gestapo."
'I could never approve of that,' Pembroke said, with hauteur.
'But you don't make policy,' Nicole said to him. 'Technically, Rudi does. That is, I do. I can compel you to act on my behalf in this matter. And you'd do it ... unless, of course, you'd prefer to join the Sons of Job and march up and down the streets throwing rocks and chanting.'
Both Garth McRae and Pembroke looked uneasy. And acutely unhappy.
'Don't be frightened,' Nicole said. 'Do you know what the true basis of political power is? Not guns or troops but the ability to get others to do what you want them to do. By whatever means are appropriate. I know I can get the NP to do what I want -- despite what you personally feel. I can get Hermann Goering to do what I want. It won't be Goering's decision; it'll be mine.'
'I hope,' Pembroke said presently, 'that you're right, that you will be able to handle Goering. I admit that on a strictly subjective level I'm frightened, frightened of this entire experiment with the past. You may open the floodgates. Goering is not a clown.'
'I'm well aware of that,' Nicole said. 'And don't presume to give me advice, Mr Pembroke. It's not your place.'
Pembroke flushed, was silent a moment and then said in a low voice, 'Sorry. Now, if it's all right with you, Mrs Thibodeaux, I'd like to bring up one other matter. It has to do with the sole remaining psychoanalyst now practising in the USEA. Dr Egon Superb. In explanation of the NP's reason for allowing him to -- '
'I don't want to hear about it,' Nicole said. 'I just want you to do your job. As you must know, I never did approve of the McPhearson Act in the first place. So you can hardly expect me to object when it is not fully applied.'
'The patient in question -- '
'Please,' she said sharply.
Pembroke, his face impassive and set, shrugged in obedience.
CHAPTER 8
As they started into the auditorium on floor one of The Abraham Lincoln, Ian Duncan saw, trailing along behind Al Miller, the flat, scuttling shape of the Martian creature, the papoola. He stopped short. 'You're bringing that along?'
Al said, 'You don't understand. Don't we have to win?'
After a pause, Ian said, 'Not that way.' He understood all right; the papoola would take on the audience as it had taken on passers-by. It would exert its extrasensory influence on them, coaxing out a favourable decision. So much for the ethics of a jalopy salesman, Ian realized. To Al, this seemed perfectly normal; if they couldn't win by their jug-playing they would win through the papoola.
'Aw,' Al said, gesturing, 'don't be our own worst enemy. All we're engaged in here is a little subliminal sales technique, such as they've been using for a century -- it's an ancient, reputable method of swinging public opinion your away. I mean, let's face it; we haven't played the jug professionally in years.' He touched the controls at his waist and the papoola hurried forward to catch up with them.
Again Al touched the controls. And in Ian's mind a persuasive thought came, Why not? Everyone else does it.
With difficulty he said, 'Get that thing off me, Al.'
Al shrugged. And the thought, which had invaded Ian's mind from without, gradually withdrew. And yet, a residue remained. He was no longer sure of his position.
'It's nothing compared to what Nicole's machinery can accomplish,' Al pointed out, seeing the expression on his face. 'One papoola here and there, and that planet-wide instrument of persuasion that Nicole has made out of TV there you have the real danger, Ian. The papoola is crude; you know you're being worked on. Not so when you listen to Nicole. The pressure is so subtle and so complete -- '
'I don't know about that,' Ian said. 'I just know that unless we're successful, unless we get to play at the White House, life as far as I'm concerned isn't worth living. And nobody put that idea in my head. It's just the way I feel; it's my own idea, dammit.' He held the door open, and Al passed on into the auditorium, carrying his jug by the handle. Ian followed, and a moment later the two of them were on the stage, facing the partially-filled hall.
'Have you ever seen her?' Al asked.
'I see her all the time.'
'I mean in reality. In person. So to speak, in the flesh.'
'Of course not,' Ian said. That was the entire point of their being successful, of getting to the White House. They would see her really, not just the TV image; it would no longer be a fantasy -- it would be true.
'I saw her once,' Al said. 'I had just put the lot down, Jalopy Jungle Number Three, on a main business avenue in Shreveport, Louisiana. It was early in the morning, about eight o'clock. I saw official cars coming; naturally I thought it was the National Police -- I started to take off. But it wasn't. It was a motorcade, with Nicole in it, going t
o dedicate a new apartment building, the largest yet.'
'Yes,' Ian said. 'The Paul Bunyan.' The football team from The Abraham Lincoln played annually against its team, and always lost. The Paul Bunyan had over ten thousand inhabitants, and all of them came from administrative-class backgrounds; it was an exclusive apartment building of men and women verging on becoming Ges. and it had incredibly high monthly payments required of each tenant.
'You should have seen her,' Al said thoughtfully as he sat facing the audience, his jug on his lap. 'You know you always think that maybe in actual life they're not -- she's not, I mean -- as attractive as she shows up on the TV. I mean, they can control the image so completely. It's synthetic in so many goddam respects. But -- Ian, she was much more attractive. The TV can't catch the vitality, the glow, all the delicate colours of her skin. The luminosity of her hair.' He shook his head, tapping the papoola with his foot; it had taken up a position beneath his chair, out of sight.
'You know what it did to me, seeing her actually? It made me discontented. I was living pretty well; Luke pays me good salary. And I enjoy meeting the public. And I like operating this creature; it's a job that requires a certain artistic skill, so to speak. But after seeing Nicole Thibodeaux, I never really accepted myself and my life again.' He eyed Ian. 'I guess that's what you feel just seeing her on the TV.'
Ian nodded. He had begun to feel nervous now; in a few minutes they would be introduced. Their test had almost come.
'So that's why,' Al continued, 'I agreed to do this; get on the jug once more and have another try.' Seeing Ian gripping his jug so tautly, Al said, 'Shall I use the papoola or not? It's up to you.' He raised a quizzical eyebrow, but his face showed understanding.
Ian said, 'Use it.'
'Okay,' Al said, and reached his hand inside his coat.
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