We Can Build You

‘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 funny-looking 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 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?’