Counterfeit World Page 3

“Of course it isn’t. Anyway, things aren’t working out the way Dr. Fuller wanted. I don’t care for the setup. I don’t think I’ll be around much longer than it takes to see that his simulator becomes a reality. His efforts deserve that much satisfaction, at least.”

  She smiled warmly, tucked the bag under her arm and motioned toward the now-disheveled stack of notes. One corner of the page containing the red-ink sketch was exposed and I had the sensation that the Grecian warrior was staring derisively at me.

  “You’ll want to go through those,” she said, heading for the door. “I’ll be expecting you at home.”

  After she had gone I returned eagerly to the desk and reached for the memoranda. But I only jerked my hand back.

  The warrior was no longer peering out at me. I went hurriedly through the stack of notes. The sketch wasn’t there.

  Frantically, then carefully, I raced through the sheets again and again. I searched the drawers, looked under the blotter and combed the floor.

  But the drawing was gone—as surely as though it had never been there.

  3

  Several days passed before I could dig deeper into the Lynch-Fuller-Grecian warrior enigma. Not that my anxiety wasn’t compelling. Rather, I was hard pressed with the necessity of whipping the environment simulator into final shape and integrating all its functions.

  Siskin kept cracking his whip. He wanted the system ready for full demonstration within three weeks, despite the fact that there were still over a thousand subjective reaction circuits to be incorporated in the machine in order to bring its primary “population” up to ten thousand.

  Since our simulation of a social system had to amount to one “community,” complete in itself, thousands of master circuits had had to be endowed with items of physical background. These included such details as transportation, schools, houses, garden societies, pets, government organizations, commercial enterprises, parks, and all the other institutions necessary to any metropolitan area. Of course, it was all done simulectronically—impressions on tapes, biasing voltages on master grids, notations on storage drums.

  The end result was the electromathematic analog of an “average” city nestled unsuspectingly in its counterfeit world. At first I found it impossible to believe that, within the miles of wiring, the myriad transducers and precision potentiometers, the countless thousands of transistors and function generators and data-acquisition systems—within all these components reposed one entire community, ready to respond to any reaction-seeking stimuli that might be programmed into its input allocators.

  It wasn’t until I had plugged into one of the surveillance circuits and seen it all in operation that I was finally convinced.

  Exhausted after that full day of activity, I relaxed with my feet propped up on the desk and wrenched my thoughts from the simulator.

  There was only one other direction in which they could go—back to Morton Lynch and Hannon J. Fuller, a Grecian warrior, a crawling turtle, and a formerly pixielike teen-ager called Jinx, who had matured, seemingly overnight, into a rather attractive but obviously forgetful young woman.

  I bent forward and selected a toggle on the intercom. The screen responded immediately with the image of a white-haired, florid-cheeked man whose face was lined with fatigue.

  “Avery,” I said, “I’ve got to talk to you.”

  “For God’s sake—not now, son. I’m bushed. Can’t it wait?”

  Avery Collingsworth—there’s a Ph.D. behind the name—reserved the privilege of calling me “son,” even though he was on my staff. But I had no objections, since I had once trudged diligently to his classes in psychoelectronics. As a result of that association, he was now psychological consultant for Reactions, Inc.

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with REIN,” I assured him.

  He smiled. “In that case, I suppose I’m at your service. But I’m going to impose one condition. You’ll have to meet me at Limpy’s. After today’s workout I need a—” he lowered his voice, ”—smoke.”

  “At Limpy’s in fifteen minutes,” I agreed.

  I’m no inveterate law-breaker. On the Thirty-third Amendment I entertain no firm persuasions. The temperance groups, I suppose, have their point. At least, the position that nicotine was harmful to the health of the individual and the morals of the nation had not been without its substantiating statistics.

  But I don’t think the Thirty-third will stick. It’s as unpopular as the Eighteenth was over a century ago. And I see no reason why a fellow shouldn’t have an occasional smoke, if he’s careful not to blow it in the direction of the Save-Our-Lungs Vigilantes.

  In arranging to meet Collinsworth at a smoke-easy within fifteen minutes, however, I hadn’t taken the CRMs into consideration. Not that I had any difficulty with the pickets in front of the building. Oh, they were vocal enough when I walked out. And there were even a few threats. But Siskin had exercised his influence and had a police detail stationed there on a twenty-four-hour basis.

  What did delay me was the army of opinion samplers who invariably select late afternoon for their maximum effort, when they can prey upon the hordes leaving the offices and downtown stores.

  Limpy’s is only a few blocks from Reactions. So I had taken the low-speed pedistrip, which made me a sitting duck for any pollster who might come along. And come along they did.

  The first, coincidentally, wanted to know all about my reaction to the Thirty-third Amendment and whether I might have any objection to a smokeless, nicotineless cigarette.

  Hardly had he left than an elderly woman came up, pad in hand, to solicit my opinion on fare increases on the Mc-Worther Lunar tour. That I never expected to take such an excursion made no difference.

  By the time she had finished, I had been carried three blocks past Limpy’s and could only continue on another two blocks to the first transfer platform.

  Another certified reaction monitor intercepted me on the way back. He politely rejected my request to be excused, standing unflinchingly on his RM Code rights. Impatiently, I told him I didn’t think packaged Mars taro, a sample of which he practically forced down my throat, would meet any justifying degree of consumer demand.

  There were occasions—and this was surely one of them—when I could look forward almost wistfully to the era in which simulectronics would sweep the streets clear of all the swarming CRMs.

  Fifteen minutes later than the appointed time, I was recognized and passed through the curio shop that fronted for Limpy’s smoke-easy.

  Inside, I waited for my eyes to adjust to the blue-haze murkiness. The acrid, yet pleasant odor of burning tobacco hung in the air. Omniphonic sound warmly embraced the room as tapestried walls muffled the strains of a period song, “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”

  From the bar, I scanned the tables and booths. Avery Collingsworth hadn’t arrived. And I conjured up a humorous, yet pathetic picture of him doing his best to fend off a pollster.

  Limpy came hobbling along the catwalk behind the bar. He was a stocky, seemingly perpetually perturbed little man with a twitch in his left eyelid that compounded his caricatural appearance.

  “Drink or smoke?” he asked.

  “A little of each. Seen Dr. Collingsworth?”

  “Not today. What’ll it be?”

  “Scotch-asteroid-double. Two cigarettes—mentholated.”

  The latter came first, neatly bundled in a clear, flip-top plastic case. I took one out, thumped it on the bar and brought it to my lips. Instantly, one of Limpy’s assistants thrust a blazing, ornate lighter in front of my face.

  The smoke burned going down, but I fought off the urge to cough. Another draft or two and I was past the hump that invariably betrays an infrequent smoker. Then came the pleasant giddiness, the sharp but satisfying assault on nostril and palate.

  A moment later, my euphoria was helped along by the soothing taste of Scotch. I sipped appreciatively, glancing out over the almost filled room. The light was subdued, the smokers restrained in conversation, so
that a droning susurrus commingled with the archaic music.

  Another period song was flowing from the speakers—“Two Cigarettes in the Dark.” And I found myself wondering how Jinx felt about the Thirty-third, how it would be to relax with her in a roof garden and watch the glow of a cigarette cast crimson highlights on the satin smoothness of her face.

  For the hundredth time I assured myself that she could have had nothing to do with the disappearance of Fuller’s cryptic drawing. I went over it clearly in my mind. I had seen the sketch while walking her to the door. When I had returned to the desk, it was gone.

  But, if she wasn’t somehow involved, then why had she denied knowing Morton Lynch?

  I swallowed the rest of the Scotch, ordered another and smoked the cigarette awhile. How simple it would all be if I could only convince myself there was no Morton Lynch—had never been any! In that case, Fuller’s death wouldn’t be under suspicion and Jinx would have been on solid ground in denying she had known him. But, still, that wouldn’t explain the missing drawing.

  Someone climbed onto the stool next to mine and a stout, gentle hand descended on my shoulder. “Damned busy-bodies!”

  I glanced up at Avery Collingsworth. “Got you too?”

  “Four of them. One hit me with a Medical Association personal habits survey. I’d rather have a tooth pulled.”

  Limpy brought over Collingsworth’s pipe, its bowl filled with the house’s special mixture, and took his order for a straight whiskey.

  “Avery ” I said thoughtfully while he lit up, “I’d like to toss you a picture puzzle. There’s this drawing. It shows a Grecian warrior with a spear, facing right and taking a step. Ahead is a turtle, moving in the same direction. One: What would it suggest to you? Two: Have you seen anything like it recently?”

  “No. I—say, what is this? By now I could have been home having a hot shower.”

  “Dr. Fuller left just such a drawing for me. Let’s start off with the assumption it was significant. Only, I can’t figure out what it means.”

  “Oddball, if you ask me.”

  “So, it’s oddball. But does it suggest anything?”

  He mulled over it, sucking pensively on his pipe. “Perhaps.”

  In the face of his continued silence, I asked, “Well, what?”

  “Zeno.”

  “Zeno?”

  “Zeno’s Paradox. Achilles and the tortoise.”

  I snapped my fingers with a mental “But of course!” Achilles in pursuit of the tortoise, never able to overtake it because each time he covers half the gap, the turtle will move ahead by a proportionate distance.

  “Can you think of any application the paradox might have in our work?” I asked excitedly.

  Eventually he shrugged. “Not offhand. But then, I’m only responsible for the psychoprogramming end of the operation. I wouldn’t be able to speak authoritatively for the other phases.”

  “The upshot of the paradox, as I recall, is the assumption that all motion is an illusion.”

  “Basically.”

  “But that doesn’t have any application at all, as far as I’m concerned.” Evidently Zeno’s Paradox wasn’t what Fuller’s drawing had been meant to suggest.

  I reached for my drink, but Collingsworth stayed my arm. “I wouldn’t attach seriousness to anything Fuller did during those last couple of weeks. He was acting rather peculiar, you know.”

  “Maybe he had a reason.”

  “No single reason could explain all the peculiarities.”

  “For instance?”

  He pursed his lips. “I played chess with him two nights before he got killed. He hit the bottle the whole evening. Oddly, though, he didn’t get a load on.”

  “Then he was concerned about something?”

  “Nothing I could put my finger on, although I noticed he definitely wasn’t himself. Kept going off on the philosophical end.”

  “About researching and improving human relations?”

  “Oh, no—nothing like that. But—well, to be frank, he imagined that his work with Reactions was beginning to pay off with what he called ‘basic discovery.’”

  “What sort of discovery?”

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  Here was verification of a sort. Lynch, too, had spoken of Fuller’s “secret information” that he had hoped to save for me. Now I was certain Lynch had actually come to Siskin’s party, that we had had our talk in the roof garden.

  I lit my second cigarette.

  “Why are you so interested in all this, Doug?”

  “Because I don’t think Fuller’s death was an accident.”

  After a moment he said solemnly, “Look, son. I’m aware of all the elements that made up the Siskin-Fuller feud—allocation of sociological research time and all that. But really now, you don’t think Siskin was so desperate as to want to bodily remove—”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Of course you didn’t. And you’d better make certain you don’t—ever. Siskin is a powerful, vindictive man.”

  I replaced my empty glass on the bar. “On the other hand, Fuller could find his way around blindfolded in the guts of the function generators. He’d be the last to walk into a high tension lead.”

  “A normal, not overly-eccentric Fuller, yes. Not Fuller as I knew him during those last couple of weeks.”

  Collingsworth finally got around to his straight shot. Then he thudded the glass on the bar and relit his pipe. The glow from the bowl made his features seem less intense. “I think I can guess what Fuller’s ‘basic discovery’ was.”

  I tensed. “You can?”

  “Sure. I’d bet it had a lot to do with his attitude toward the subjective reaction units in his simulator. If you remember, he more often than not referred to them as ‘real people.’”

  “But he was just being facetious.”

  “Was he? I can remember him saying, ‘Damn it! We’re not going to factor any analog pollsters into this setup!’”

  I explained, “He planned it so that we wouldn’t have to use interrogating units to poll opinion in our machine. He settled for a different system—audiovisual stimuli, such as billboards, handbills, contrived videocasts. We sample reaction by looking in on empathy-surveillance circuits.”

  “Why no pollsters in Fuller’s counterfeit world?” he asked.

  “Because actually it’s more efficient without them. And we’ll be getting a true reflection of social behavior minus the annoying factor of oral opinion sampling.”

  “That’s the theory. But how many times did you hear Fuller say, ‘I’m not going to have my little people harassed by any damned busybodies’?”

  He had a point. Even I suspected that Fuller had fancied an unwarranted degree of sentience on the part of the ID units he was programming into his simulator.

  Collingsworth spread his hands and smiled. “I believe Fuller’s ‘basic discovery’ was that his reaction entities weren’t merely ingenious circuits in a simulectronic complex, but instead were real, living, thinking personalities. In his opinion, I’m sure, they actually existed. In a solipsistic world, perhaps, but never suspecting that their past experiences were synthetic, that their universe wasn’t a good, solid, firm, materialistic one.”

  “You don’t believe anything like—”

  His amused eyes relayed fitful reflections from a cigarette lighter that flared nearby. “My boy, I’m a pure psychologist-behaviorist leanings. My philosophy tracks that line closely. But you, Fuller, and all the other simulectronicists are a queer breed. When you start mixing psychology with electronics and sprinkle in a liberal dose of probability conditioning, you’re bound to get some rather oddball convictions out of the mess. You can hardly stuff people into a machine without starting to wonder about the basic nature of both machines and people.”

  The discussion was getting far afield. I tried to steer it back on course. “I won’t buy your assumption on Fuller’s ‘basic discovery.’ Because I think the discovery is the same thi
ng Lynch was trying to tell me about.”

  “Lynch? Who’s that?”

  I drew back. Then I smiled, realizing that somehow he must have heard Jinx Fuller say she had never heard of Lynch. And now he was having his own little joke.

  “Seriously,” I went on, “if I hadn’t believed Lynch’s story about Fuller’s ‘secret,’ I wouldn’t have gone to the police.”

  “Lynch? The police? What’s this all about?”

  I began to suspect that he might be serious. “Avery, I’m not in the mood for horseplay. I’m talking about Morton Lynch!”

  He shook his head stubbornly. “Don’t know the man.”

  “Lynch!” I half shouted. “In charge of security at REIN!” I pointed to a bronze loving cup behind the bar. “That Lynch! The one whose name is on that trophy for beating you in the ballistoboard tournament last year!”

  Collingsworth beckoned across the bar and Limpy came over. “Will you tell Mr. Hall who has been chief of internal security at his establishment for the past five years?”

  Limpy jerked his thumb toward a sour-faced, middle-aged man seated on the end stool.

  “Joe Gadsen.”

  “Now, Limpy, hand Mr. Hall that trophy.” I read the inscription: Avery Collingsworth——June, 2033.

  The room lurched and whirled and the acrid smell of tobacco smoke seemed to surge up and envelope me like a fog. The music faded and the last thing I remembered was reaching out to steady myself with a grip on the bar.

  I must not have passed out completely, though. For my next experience was that of bumping into someone on the staticstrip near the slowest pedestrian belt. I rebounded and leaned against a building—several blocks away from the smoke-easy.

  It must have been another seizure—but one during which I had apparently remained in possession of myself. Avery probably hadn’t even noticed anything was wrong. And here I was, suddenly conscious again, confounded and trembling, staring profoundly up into the early evening sky.

  I thought helplessly of Lynch, his name on the trophy, Fuller’s drawing. Had they all actually vanished? Or had I only fancied those occurrences? Why did order and reason seem suddenly to be tumbling down all around me?