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

"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 Meistersinger.' 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.