The Simulacra by Philip K. Dick Page A

knocking but merely standing there in the hall, uncertainly. This is awful, he said to himself. He was actually very fond of his older brother, who had helped raise him. Didn’t Chic really mean more to him than even Julie? No. Nothing and no one meant more to him than Julie.
    Raising his hand he knocked.
    The door opened. There stood Chic, in his blue dressing gown, a magazine in one hand. He looked a little older, more tired and bald and depressed, than usual.
    “Now I realize why you haven’t dropped by and tried to cheer me up,” Vince said, “during these last couple of days. How could you, with Julie living up here?”
    Chic said, “Come on in.” He held the door wide. Wearily, he led his brother into the small living room. “I suppose you’re going to give me a hard time,” he said over his shoulder. “As if I didn’t have enough already. My goddam firm’s about to close down—”
    “Who cares,” Vince said, panting. “It’s what you deserve.” He looked around for Julie but did not see her or any sign of her belongings. Could old Joe Purd have been wrong? Impossible. Purd knew everything that went on in the building; gossip was his whole life. He was an authority.
    “I heard something interesting on the news tonight,” Chic said as he seated himself on the couch facing his younger brother. “The government has decided to allow an exception in the application of the McPhearson Act. A psychoanalyst named Egon—”
    “Listen,” Vince broke in. “Where is she?”
    “I’ve got troubles enough without you jumping on me.” Chic eyed his younger brother. “I’ll flip you for her.”
    Vince Strikerock choked with rage.
    “A joke,” Chic murmured woodenly. “Sorry I said it; don’t know why I said it. She’s out somewhere buying clothes. She’s expensive to keep, isn’t she? You should have warned me. Put up a notice on the building’s bulletin board. But I’ll tell you seriously what I propose. I want you to get me into Karp und Sohnen Werke. Ever since Julie showed up here I’ve been thinking about this. Call it a deal.”
    “No deal.”
    “Then no Julie.”
    Vince said, “What kind of job do you want with Karp?”
    “Anything. Well, anything in public relations, sales or promotion; not in the engineering or manufacturing end. The same type of work I’ve been doing for Maury Frauenzimmer. Clean hands type of work.”
    His voice shaking, Vince said, “I’ll get you in as assistant shipping clerk.”
    Chic laughed sharply. “That’s a good one. And I’ll give you back Julie’s left foot.”
    “Jesus.” Vince stared at him, unable to believe his ears. “You’re depraved or something.”
    “Not at all. I’m in a very bad position, careerwise. All I have by which I can bargain is your ex-wife. What am I supposed to do? Sink obligingly into oblivion? The hell with that; I’m fighting to exist.” Chic seemed calm, fully rational.
    “Do you love her?” Vince said.
    Now, for the first time, his brother’s composure seemed to leave him. “What? Oh sure, I’m out of my mind with love for her—can’t you perceive that? How can you ask?” His tone was violently bitter. “That’s why I’m going to trade her back to you for a job at Karp. Listen, Vince, she’s a cold, hostile cookie— she’s out for herself and no one else. As far as I can ascertain she came up here merely to hurt you. Ponder that. I tell you what. We’ve got a bad problem here, you and I, with Julie; it’s ruining our lives. You agree? I think we should take it to an expert. Frankly it’s too much for me. I can’t solve it.”
    “What expert?”
    “Any expert. For instance the building marital guidance counselor. Or let’s take it to the last remaining psychoanalyst in the USEA, that Dr. Egon Superb they told about on the TV. Let’s go to him before they shut him down, too. What do you say? You know I’m right; you and I’ll never manage to thrash this out.” He added, “And come out