Philip Dick - We Can Build You

"No," Chester said. "It talked about the unnatural impudence of commanders in the field."

When I had hung up the phone Maury said, "Maybe Pris would get it."

"Does she have a car?" I asked.

"She can take the Jag. Maybe you better go along with her, though, in case there's still a chance your dad's interested."

Later in the day Pris showed up at the office, and soon we were on our way back to Boise.

For the first part of the trip we drove in silence, Pris behind the wheel. All at once she said, "Do you have connections with someone who's interested in the Edwin M. Stanton?" She eyed me.

"No. What a strange question."

"What's your real motive for coming along on this trip? You do have a concealed motive... it radiates from every pore of your body. If it were up to me I wouldn't let you within a hundred yards of the Stanton."

As she continued to eye me, I knew I was in for more dissection.

"Why aren't you married?" she asked.

"I don't know."

"Are you a homosexual?"

"No!"

"Did some girl you fell in love with find you too ugly?"

I groaned.

"How old are you?"

That seemed reasonable enough, and yet, in view of the general attitude she held, I was wary of even that. "Ummm," I murmured.

"Forty?"

"No. Thirty-three."

"But your hair is gray on the sides and you have funnylooking snaggly teeth."

I wished I was dead.

"What was your first reaction to the Stanton?" Pris asked.

I said, "I thought, 'What a kindly-looking old gentleman that is there.'

"You're lying, aren't you?"

"Yes!"

"What did you actually think?"

"I thought, 'What a kindly-looking old gentleman that is there, wrapped up in newspapers.'"

Pris said thoughtfully, "You probably are queer for old men. So your opinion isn't worth anything."

"Listen, Pris, somebody is going to brain you with a tire iron, someday. You understand?"

"You can barely handle your hostility, can you? Is that because you're a failure in your own eyes? Maybe you're being too hard on yourself. Tell me your childhood dreams and goals and I'll tell you if--"

"Not for a billion dollars."

"Are they shameful?" She continued to study me intently. "Did you do shameful sexual things with yourself, like it tells about in the psych books?"

I felt as if I were about to pass out.

"Obviously I hit on a sensitive topic with you," Pris said. "But don't be ashamed. You don't do it anymore, do you? I suppose you still might... you're not married, and normal sexual outlets are denied you." She pondered that. "I wonder what Sam does, along the sex line."

"Sam Vogel? Our driver, now in the Reno, Nevada, area?"

"No. Sam K. Barrows."

"You're obsessed," I said. "Your thoughts, your speech, your tiling the bathroom--your involvement in the Stanton."

"The simulacrum is brilliantly original."

"What would your analyst say about it?"

"Milt Horstowski? I told him. He already said."

"Tell me," I said. "Didn't he say this is a deranged manic compulsion of some kind?"

"No, he agreed that I should be doing something creative. When I told him about the Stanton he complimented me on it and hoped it would work out."

"Probably you gave him one hell of a biased account."

"No. I told him the truth."

"About _refighting the Civil War with robots?_"

"Yes. He said it had flair."

"Jesus Christ," I said. "They're all crazy."

"All," Pris said, reaching out and ruffling my hair, "but you, buddy boy. Right?"

I could say nothing.

"You take things so seriously," Pris drawled. "Relax and enjoy life. You're an anal type. Duty bound. You ought to let those old sphincter muscles let go for once... see how it feels. You want to be bad; that's the secret desire of the anal type. They feel they must do their duty, though; that's why they're so pedantic and given to having doubts all the time. Like this; you have doubts about this."

"I don't have doubts. I just have a yawning sense of absolute dread."

Pris laughed, rumpled my hair.

"It's funny," I said. "My overwhelming fear."

"It's not an overwhelming fear you feel," Pris said matterof-factly. "It's simply a little bit of natural carnal earthly lust. Some for me. Some for loot. Some for power. Some for fame." She indicated, with her thumb and first finger, a small amount. "About that much in total. That's the size of your great big overwhelming emotions." Lazily, she glanced at me, enjoying herself.

We drove on.

In Boise, at my family's home, we picked up the simulacrum, re-wrapped it in newspapers, and lugged it to the car. We returned to Ontario and Pris let me off at the office. There was little conversation between us on the return trip; Pris was withdrawn and I smoldered with anxiety and resentment toward her. My attitude seemed to amuse her. I was wise enough, however, to keep my mouth closed.

When I entered the office I found a short, plump, darkhaired woman waiting for me. She wore a heavy coat and carried a briefcase. "Mr. Rosen?"

"Yeah," I said, wondering if she was a process server.

"I'm Colleen Nild. From Mr. Barrows' office. Mr. Barrows asked me to drop by here and speak to you, if you have a moment." She had a low, rather uncertain voice, and looked, I thought, like someone's niece.

"What does Mr. Barrows want?" I asked guardedly, showing her to a chair. I seated myself facing her.

"Mr. Barrows had me make a carbon of a letter he has prepared for Miss Pris Frauenzimmer, a carbon for you." She held out three thin sheets, onion-skin, in fact; I saw somewhat blurred, dimmed, but obviously very correctly-typed business correspondence. "You're the Rosen family from Boise, aren't you? The people who propose to manufacture the simulacra?"

Scanning the letter, I saw the word _Stanton_ pop up again and again; Barrows was answering a letter from Pris having to do with it. But I could not get the hang of Barrows' thoughts; it was all too diffuse.

Then all at once I got the drift.

Barrows had obviously misunderstood Pris. He thought the idea of refighting the Civil War with electronic simulacra, manufactured at our factory in Boise, was a civic enterprise, a do-gooding patriotic effort along the lines of improving the schools and reclaiming the deserts, not a business proposition at all. That's what she gets, I said to myself. Yes, I was right; Barrows was thanking her for her idea, for thinking of him in connection with it... but, he said, he received requests of this sort daily, and already had his hands full with worthy efforts. For instance a good deal of his time was spent in fighting condemnation of a war-time housing tract somewhere in Oregon... the letter became so vague, at that point, that I lost the thread completely.

"Can I keep this?" I asked Miss Nild.

"Please do. And if you'd like to comment, I'm sure Mr. Barrows would be interested in anything you have to say."

I said, "How long have you worked for Mr. Barrows?"

"Eight years, Mr. Rosen." She sounded happy about it.

"Is he a billionaire, like the papers say?"

"I suppose so, Mr. Rosen." Her brown eyes twinkled, enlarged by her glasses.

"Does he treat his employees good?"

She smiled without answering.

"What's this housing project, this Green Peach Hat, that Barrows is talking about in the letter?"

"That's a term for Gracious Prospect Heights, one of the greatest multiple-unit housing developments in the Pacific Northwest. Mr. Barrows always calls it that, although originally it was a term of derision. The people who want to tear it down invented the term and Mr. Barrows took it over-- the term, I mean--to protect the people who live there, so they won't feel spat upon. They appreciate that. They got up a petition thanking him for his help in blocking condemnation proceedings; there were almost two thousand signatures."