The Simulacra by Philip K. Dick Page A

would disintegrate my comprehension of the Umwelt, Mitwelt and Eigenwelt. What I’ve managed to do is—”
    “Richard,” Janet Raimer interrupted, “I feel so sorry for you. I wish I could help you.” She sounded, then, as if she were about to cry; her voice wavered.
    “Oh well,” Kongrosian said, “who needs the Umwelt, Mitwelt and Eigenwelt? Take it easy, Janet. Don’t get so emotionally involved. I’ll be out of here, just as before.” But he did not really believe that. This time was different. And evidently Janet had sensed it. “However,” he went on, “I think in the meantime you’re going to have to search elsewhere for White House talent. You’ll have to forget me and strike out into entirely new areas. What else is a talent scout for, if not to do exactly that?”
    “I suppose so,” Janet said.
    My son, Kongrosian thought. Maybe he could appear in my place. What a weird, morbid thought that was; he cringed from it, horrified that he had let it enter his mind. Really, it demonstrated how ill he was. As if anyone could be interested, take seriously, the unfortunate quasi-musical noises which Plautus made . . . although perhaps in the largest, most embracing sense, they could be called
ethnic.
    “Your current disappearance from the world,” Janet Raimer said, “is a tragedy. As you say, it’s my job to find someone or something to fill the void—even though I know that’s impossible. I’ll make the try. Thank you, Richard. It was nice of you to talk to me, considering your condition. I’ll ring off now, and let you rest.”
    Kongrosian said, “All I hope is that I haven’t contaminated you with my phobic body odor.” He broke the connection, then.
    My last tie with the interpersonal world, he realized. I may never speak on the phone again; I feel my world contracting even more. God, where will it end? But the electroconvulsive shock will help; the shrinkage process will be reversed or at least stalled.
    I wonder if I ought to try to get hold of Egon Superb, he said to himself. Despite the McPhearson Act. Hopeless; Superb no longer exists—the law has obliterated him, at least as far as his patients are concerned. Egon Superb may still exist as an individual, in essence, but the category “psychoanalyst” has been eradicated as if it never existed. But how I need him! If I could consult him just one more time—damn A.G. Chemie and their enormous lobby, their huge influence. Maybe I can get my phobic body odor to spread to them.
    Yes, I’ll put through a call to them, he decided. Ask about the possibility of the super detergent and at the same time contaminate them; they deserve it.
    In the phone book he looked up the number of the Bay Area branch of A.G. Chemie, found it, and by psychokinesis dialed.
    They’ll be sorry they forced passage of that act, Kongrosian said to himself as he listened to the phone connection being put through.
    “Let me talk to your chief psych-chemist,” he said, when the A.G. Chemie switchboard had responded.
    Presently a busy-sounding male voice came onto the line; the towel placed over the screen of the phone made it impossible for Kongrosian to see the man but he sounded young, competent, and thoroughly professional. “This is B Station. Merrill Judd speaking. Who is this and why do you have the vid portion blocked?” The psych-chemist sounded irritable.
    Kongrosian said, “You don’t know me, Mr. Judd.” And then he thought.
Now it’s time to contaminate them.
Stepping close to the phone he whisked the towel from the screen.
    “Richard Kongrosian,” the psych-chemist said, eyeing him. “Yes, I know you, know your artistry at least.” He was a young man, with a competent no-nonsense expression, a thoroughly detached schizoid person indeed. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. What can I do for you?”
    “I need an antidote,” Kongrosian said, “for an abominable Theodorus Nitz offensive body odor commercial. You know, the one which begins: