Philip Dick - The Complete Stories of Philip K. Dick Vol. 4:

"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.

We'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.