And you hate her, Ian realized. You never forgave her. "Were they?" he asked Luke.
"No," Luke answered. "True, one act was a strip show; we had follies girl puppets. But nobody ever objected before. My Dad took it hard but it didn't bother me." His face was impassive.
Al said, "Was Nicole the First Lady that far back?"
"Oh yes," Luke said. "She's been in office for seventy-three years; didn't you know that?"
"It isn't possible," both Al and Ian said, almost together.
"Sure it is," Luke said. "She's a really old woman, now. A grandmother. But she still looks good, I guess. You'll know when you see her."
Stunned, Ian said, "On TV—"
"Oh yeah," Luke agreed. "On TV she looks around twenty. But look in the history books yourself; figure it out. The facts are all there."
The facts, Ian realized, mean nothing when you can see with your own eyes that she's as young-looking as ever. And we see that every day.
Luke, you're lying, he thought. We know it; we all know it. My brother saw her; Al would have said, if she was really like that. You hate her; that's your motive. Shaken, he turned his back to Luke, not wanting to have anything to do with the man, now. Seventy-three years in office—that would make Nicole almost ninety, now. He shuddered at the idea; he blocked it out of his thoughts. Or at least he tried to.
"Good luck, boys," Luke said, chewing on his toothpick.
In his sleep Ian Duncan had a terrible dream. A hideous old woman with greenish, wrinkled claws scrabbled at him, whining for him to do something—he did not know what it was because her voice, her words, blurred into indistinction, swallowed by her broken-toothed mouth, lost in the twisting thread of saliva which found its way to her chin. He struggled to free himself…
"Chrissake," Al's voice came to him. "Wake up; we have to get the lot moving; we're supposed to be at the White House in three hours."
Nicole, Ian realized as he sat up groggily. It was her I was dreaming about; ancient and withered, but still her. "Okay," he muttered as he rose unsteadily from the cot. "Listen, Al," he said, "suppose she is old, like Loony Luke says? What then? What'll we do?"
"We'll perform," Al said. "Play our jugs."
"But I couldn't live through it," Ian said. "My ability to adjust is just too brittle. This is turning into a nightmare; Luke controls the papoola and Nicole is old—what's the point of our going on? Can't we go back to just seeing her on the TV and maybe once in our lifetime at a great distance like you did in Shreveport? That's good enough for me, now. I want that, the image; okay?"
"No," Al said doggedly. "We have to see this through. Remember, you can always emigrate to Mars."
The lot had already risen, was already moving toward the East Coast and Washington, D.C.
When they landed, Slezak, a rotund, genial little individual, greeted them warmly; he shook hands with them as they walked toward the service entrance of the White House. "Your program is ambitious," he bubbled, "but if you can fulfill it, fine with me, with us here, the First Family I mean, and in particular the First Lady herself who is actively enthusiastic about all forms of original artistry. According to your biographical data you two made a thorough study of primitive disc recordings from the early nineteen hundreds, as early as 1920, of jug bands surviving from the U.S. Civil War, so you're authentic juggists except of course you're classical, not folk."
"Yes sir," Al said.
"Could you, however, slip in one folk number?" Slezak asked as they passed the guards at the service entrance and entered the White House, the long, carpeted corridor with its artificial candles set at intervals. "For instance, we suggest 'Rockabye My Sarah Jane.' Do you have that in your repertoire? If not—"
"We have it," Al said shortly. "We'll add it toward the end."
"Fine," Slezak said, prodding them amiably ahead of him. "Now may I ask what this creature you carry is?" He eyed the papoola with something less than 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 thought. She was even lovelier than on TV, and much more distinct; that was the main difference, the fabulous authenticity of her appearance, its reality to the senses. The senses knew the difference. Here she sat, in faded blue-cotton trousers, moccasins on her 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 show. Her hair cut short, exposing her beautifully-formed neck and ears. And, he thought, so darn young. She did not look even twenty. And the vitality. The TV could not catch that, the delicate glow of color and line all about her.
"Nicky," Slezak said, "these are the classical juggists."
She glanced up, sideways; she had been reading a newspaper. Now she smiled. "Good morning," she said. "Did you have breakfast? We could serve you some Canadian bacon and butterhorns and coffee if you want." Her voice, oddly, did not seem to come from her; it materialized from the upper part of the room, almost at the ceiling. Looking that way, Ian saw a series of speakers and he realized that a glass 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 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?
Now the President, Taufic Negal, a slender, dapper, dark man, entered behind Nicole, and she lifted her face up to him and said, "Look, Taffy, they have one of those papoolas with them—won't that be fun?"
"Yes," the President said, smiling, standing beside his wife.
"Could I see it?" Nicole asked Al. "Let it come here." She made a signal, and the glass wall began to lift.
Al dropped the papoola and it scuttled toward Nicole, beneath the raised security barrier; it hopped up, and all at once Nicole held it in her strong hands, gazing down at it intently.
"Heck," she said, "it's not alive; it's just a toy."
"None survived," Al said. "As far as we know. But this is an authentic model, based on remains found on Mars." He stepped toward her—
The glass barrier settled 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. Nothing happened for a time and then, at last, the papoola stirred. It slid from Nicole's hands and hopped back to the floor. Nicole exclaimed in amazement, her eyes bright.
"Do you want it, dear?" her husband asked. "We can undoubtedly get you one, even several."
"What does it do?" Nicole asked Al.
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 hands together.
Al and Ian looked at each other.
"S-sure," Al said. "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 Duncan, here, at the first jug," Al said. "And besides me is my brother Ian at the second jug, bringing you a concert of classical favorites, beginning with a little Schubert." And then, at a signal from Al, they both began to play.
Bump bump-bump BUMP-BUMP buuump bump, ba-bump-bump bup-bup-bup-bup-bupppp.
Nicole giggled.
W
e've failed, Ian thought. God, the worst has 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 cover 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 the papoola he said, "You better dance."
"Oh really, this is wonderful," Nicole said. "Look," she said to her husband, "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."
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 security guard stepped into sight, his rifle in his hands, peering intently 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 over and over again, the same three or four, unceasingly.
"Luke," he said then, to his brother. "He did it. Revenge. It's the end of us." He looked gray, worn-out. Reflexively he began wrapping his jug up once more, going through the motions step by step.
"You're under arrest," a second White House guard said, appearing behind them and training his gun on the two of them.
"Sure," Al said listlessly, his head nodding, wobbling vacuously. "We had nothing to do with it so arrest us."
Getting to her feet with the assistance of her husband, Nicole walked toward Al and Ian. "Did it bite me because I laughed?" she said in a quiet voice.
Slezak stood mopping his forehead. He said nothing; he merely stared at them sightlessly.
"I'm sorry," Nicole said. "I made it angry, didn't I? It's a shame; we would have enjoyed your act."
"Luke did it," Al said.
"'Luke.'" Nicole studied him. "Loony Luke, you mean. He owns those dreadful jalopy jungles that come and go only a step from illegality. Yes, I know who you mean; I remember him." To her husband she said, "I guess we'd better have him arrested, too."
"Anything you say," her husband said, writing on a pad of paper.
Nicole said, "This whole jug business … it was just a cover-up for an action hostile to us, wasn't it? A crime against the state. We'll have to rethink the entire philosophy of inviting performers here … perhaps it's been a mistake. It gives too much access to anyone who has hostile intentions toward us. I'm sorry." She looked sad and pale, now; she folded her arms and stood rocking back and forth, lost in thought.
"Believe me, Nicole," Al began.
Introspectively, she said, "I'm not Nicole; don't call me that. Nicole Thibodeaux died years ago. I'm Kate Rupert, the fourth one to take her place. I'm just an actress who looks enough like the original Nicole to be able to keep this job, and I wish sometimes, when something like this happens, that I didn't have it. I have no real authority. There's a council somewhere that governs… I've never even seen them." To her husband she said, "They know about this, don't they?"
"Yes," he said, "they've already been informed."
"You see," she said to Al, "he, even the President, has more actual power than I." She smiled wanly.
Al said, "How many attempts have there been on your life?"
"Six or seven," she said. "All for psychological reasons. Unresolved Oedipal complexes or something like that. I don't really care." She turned to her husband, then. "I really think these two men here—" She pointed at Al and Ian. "They don't seem to know what's going on; maybe they are innocent." To her husband and Slezak and the security guards she said, "Do they have to be destroyed? I don't see why you couldn't just eradicate a part of their memory-cells and let them go. Why wouldn't that do?"
Her husband shrugged. "If you want it that way."
"Yes," she said. "I'd prefer that. It would make my job easier. Take them to the medical center at Bethesda and then let's go on; let's give an audience to the next performers."
A security guard nudged Ian in the back with his gun. "Down the corridor, please."
"Okay," Ian murmured, gripping his jug. But what happened? he wondered. I don't quite understand. This woman isn't Nicole and even worse there is no Nicole anywhere; there's just the TV image, the illusion, and behind it, behind her, another group entirely rules. A council of some kind. But who are they and how did they get power? Will we ever know? We came so far; we almost seem to know what's really going on. The actuality behind the illusion … can't they tell us the rest? What difference would it make now? How—
"Goodbye," Al was saying to him.
"What?" he said, horrified. "Why do you say that? They're going to let us go, aren't they?"
Al said, "We won't remember each other. Take my word for it; we won't be allowed to keep any ties like that. So—" He held out his hand. "So goodbye, Ian. We made it to the White House. You won't remember that either, but it's true; we did do it." He grinned crookedly.
"Move along," the security guard said to them.
Holding their jugs, the two of them moved down the corridor, toward the door and the waiting black medical van beyond.
It was night, and Ian Duncan found himself at a deserted street corner, cold and shivering, blinking in the glaring white light of an urban monorail loading platform. What am I doing here? he asked himself, bewildered. He looked at his wristwatch; it was eight o'clock. I'm supposed to be at the All Souls Meeting, aren't I? he thought dazedly.
I can't miss another one, he realized. Two in a row—it's a terrible fine; it's economic ruin. He began to walk.
The familiar building, Abraham Lincoln with all its network of towers and windows, lay extended ahead; it was not far and he hurried, breathing deeply, trying to keep up a good steady pace. It must be over, he thought. The lights in the great central subsurface auditorium were not lit. Damn it, he breathed in despair.
"All Souls is over?" he said to the doorman as he entered the lobby, his identification held out.
"You're a little confused, Mr. Duncan," the doorman said, putting away his gun. "All Souls was last night; this is Friday."
Something's gone wrong, Ian realized. But he said nothing; he merely nodded and hurried on toward the elevator.
As he emerged from the elevator on his own floor, a door opened and a furtive figure beckoned to him. "Hey, Duncan."
It was Corley. Warily, because an encounter like this could be disastrous, Ian approached him. "What is it?"
"A rumor," Corley said in a rapid, fear-filled voice. "About your last relpol test—some irregularity. They're going to rouse you at five or six A.M. tomorrow morning and spring a surprise quiz on you." He glanced up and down the hall. "Study the late 1980s and the religio-collectivist movements in particular. Got it?"
"Sure," Ian said, with gratitude. "And thanks a lot. Maybe I can do the same—" He broke off, because Corley had hurried back into his own apartment and shut the door; Ian was alone.
Certainly very nice of him, he thought as he walked on. Probably saved my hide, kept me from being forcibly ejected right out of here forever.
When he reached his apartment he made himself comfortable, with all his reference books on the political history of the United States spread out around him. I'll study all night, he decided. Because I have to pass that quiz; I have no choice.
To keep himself awake, he turned on the TV. Presently the warm, familiar being, the presence of the First Lady, flowed into motion and began to fill the room.
"…and at our musical tonight," she was saying, "we will have a saxophone quartet which will play themes from Wagner's operas, in particular my favorite, 'Die Meistersing
er.' I believe we will truly all find this a deeply rewarding and certainly an enriching experience to cherish. And, after that, my husband the President and I have arranged to bring you once again an old favorite of yours, the world renown cellist, Henri LeClercq, in a program of Jerome Kern and Cole Porter." She smiled, and at his pile of reference books, Ian Duncan smiled back.
I wonder how it would be to play at the White House, he said to himself. To perform before the First Lady. Too bad I never learned to play any kind of musical instrument. I can't act, write poems, dance or sing—nothing. So what hope is there for me? Now, if I had come from a musical family, if I had had a father or brothers to teach me how…
Glumly, he scratched a few notes on the rise of the French Christian Fascist Party of 1975. And then, drawn as always to the TV set, he put his pen down and turned to face the set. Nicole was now exhibiting a piece of Delft tile which she had picked up, she explained, in a little shop in Vermont. What lovely clear colors it had … he watched, fascinated, as her strong, slim fingers caressed the shiny surface of the baked enamel tile.
"See the tile," Nicole was murmuring in her husky voice. "Don't you wish you had a tile like that? Isn't it lovely?"
"Yes," Ian Duncan said.
"How many of you would like someday to see such a tile?" Nicole asked. "Raise your hands."
Ian raised his hand hopefully.
"Oh, a whole lot of you," Nicole said, smiling her intimate, radiant smile. "Well, perhaps later we will have another tour of the White House. Would you like that?"
Hopping up and down in his chair, Ian said, "Yes, I'd like that."
On the TV screen she was smiling directly at him, it seemed. And so he smiled back. And then, reluctantly, feeling a great weight descend over him, he at last turned back to his reference books. Back to the harsh realities of his daily, endless life.
Against the window of his apartment something bumped and a voice called at him thinly, "Ian Duncan, I don't have much time."
Whirling, he saw outside in the night darkness a shape drifting, an egg-like construction that hovered. Within it a man waved at him energetically, still calling. The egg gave off a dull putt-putt noise, its jets idling as the man kicked open the hatch of the vehicle and then lifted himself out.
The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick 4: The Minority Report Page 180