‘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 too 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 matter-of-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 There was little conversation between us on the return trip; Pris was withdrawn and I smoldered with anxiety and resentment toward her.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, dark-haired 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.’
‘Then the people who live there don’t want it torn down?’
‘Oh no. They’re fiercely loyal to it. A group of do-gooders have taken it upon themselves to meddle, housewives and some society people who want to increase their own property values. They want to see the land used for a country club or something on that order. Their group is called the Northwest Citizens’ Committee for Better Housing. A Mrs Devorac heads it.’
I recalled having read about her in the Oregon papers; she was quite up in the fashionable circles, always involved in causes. Her picture appeared on the first page of section two regularly.
‘Why does Mr Barrows want to save this housing tract?’ I asked.
‘He is incensed at the idea of American citizens deprived of their rights. Most of them are poorer people.
